


Lost in the Rain

by genmitsu



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-03-07 21:43:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 51,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genmitsu/pseuds/genmitsu
Summary: While working a murder case Jim gets closer to Oswald - who may or may not be involved.Despite the morbidity of the thought Jim is genuinely glad there's a dead body waiting for him somewhere. Anything, really, as long as it kept his mind off his breakup with Lee. It wasn’t pretty. Thank God for the ever-active Gotham crime life.This is only Explicit in the last chapter. The rest of the work is just plain M.





	1. John Doe

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Season 2 timeline, but ignores Galavan and Barnes' crusade. Ed is one of the good ones here.

 

The rain is as merciless as ever, and he is drenched to the bone. The wind is blowing in his face, stinging. The muck under his feet is that thick variety that threatens to suck the boots off your feet and then swallow you whole for seconds. He trudges on.

It's so dark here, he can barely make out the shapes around him. A wall. A lamp post. A cafe sign. If it wasn't for the rain maybe he could see better, but the water gets in his eyes every time he blinks it away. His face is cold. His hands are numb. It's so miserable out here, so devastatingly lonely that he feels it might just be better to stand still and let the muck and the cold and the rain swallow him.

"Jim..."

Not even a voice, a breath. But it's filled with such urgency and pull he squares his shoulders and keeps walking towards it.

Suddenly the wind picks up, making every step a losing battle. He's pushed back and despite all his struggling he feels that he's drowning, powerless to move in any direction but down, down. He gasps as the darkness engulfs him and tries to find something, anything, to hang on to, to stay alive and reach--

Jim wakes up with a start and his arm outstretched. He's drenched in sweat and his throat feels hoarse. He drops the arm back on the bed and tries to relax again, fall back asleep. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

No. Like any other time, it doesn't work. Resigned, he gets up and goes through his morning routine.

The dream occurs so much more often ever since his return to Gotham. And he's never able to ignore it and fall asleep again, so he just starts his day at 5 AM or earlier. He's lucky today and it's 6:10 on his alarm clock.

Jim gave up on trying to make sense of the dream a long time ago. The voice is not one he can recognize. The dark street, probably Gotham, what other place could be so dismal? Everything else... is just not worth thinking over.

Jim's only just poured himself some coffee when his phone rings.  
  
"Hey, Harvey."

"You're awfully chipper for such an ungodly hour," Harvey says in a slurred voice. "Get to the 60th and 3rd, some bum found a dead guy in a trash bin."

"I'll be right over," Jim says and hangs up.  
  
Despite the morbidity of the thought Jim is genuinely glad there's a dead body waiting for him somewhere. Anything, really, as long as it kept his mind off his breakup with Lee. It wasn’t pretty. Thank God for the ever-active Gotham crime life.  
  
When he gets to the scene, a desolate street corner in the Narrows, Harvey is nowhere in sight, but Ed is.  
  
"Got anything for me, Ed?"

"Oh, Detective Gordon," Ed raises his head up from some dirt samples and adjusts his glasses before straightening up to his full height. "Sure do. Look, there's the victim. He was stuffed into the trash bin but the homeless man overturned it in his shock and... here we are."  
  
Jim walks to the spot Ed shown him, the forensic specialist on his heels. He pulls the sheet off the corpse and sees a man, roughly in his thirties, dark-haired, stocky, casually dressed in jeans and a hoodie, stiff in an unnatural cramped pose.  
  
"Time of death is around 22, 23 o'clock Thursday, but I need to perform an autopsy first to give you any particulars, Detective."

"Any clues to the cause of death? Weapons?"

"I'm thin but I'm wide. I can feed you or I can destroy you. What am I?" Ed asks with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Lay off, Ed. It's too damn early and if I know anything it's that Jim here haven't had anything to get his blood sugar going. Which I am here to fix," Harvey says, appearing from behind Ed and shoving a doughnut into Jim's hand. "You're welcome."  
  
Jim smiles despite himself and takes a bite gratefully, the grease and sugar jumpstarting his brains instantly.  
  
"Ed. A knife? The weapon is a knife?"

"Bingo, Detective! Multiple wounds to the chest area. The hands obstruct the view somewhat, but it's a clear cause of death. Oh, and the body was moved. Which, again, calls for a proper autopsy."

"Any ID on him? Wallet?"

"That's the funny thing, Detective Bullock. His wallet is in his pocket and nothing was taken. Well, not money at least. But there's nothing in it that would help ID the victim. No credit cards, driver's license, nothing."

"Huh. So, dead bloke, no ID, was moved, and our only lead is a homeless bum? Where is he, anyway?"

"Over there."  
  
The debriefing of the homeless man brings no other leads. He was looking for some leftovers when he found the body. He was startled and tipped the bin over, the body fell out. No, he did not rummage through the vic's pockets. No, he never saw anyone close by. Yes, he's a resident in the area, no, there were no disturbances, no more than usual anyway. First time he's seen the dead guy. Can I go now, officer?  
  
Jim sighs, rubbing his temples. Harvey is looking back at the street corner, where the body still lies, a dour expression on his face.  
  
"Any thoughts, Jimbo?"

"Not really. Just... knife wounds and multiple. Knife tends to be personal. A grudge?"

"Jim, Jim. This is Gotham. Everyone and their mom here has a grudge on someone. And to even start picking through that shit we gotta ID the vic first."  
  
That's their major hiccup. Nobody's seen the victim in the area. No missing person reports. It's like nobody cares the man simply disappeared off the face of the planet. Even for this city, Jim finds the thought depressing.  
  
Ed confirmed that the body was moved, and the time of death too. He also found the evidence of torture - black bruises over the victim's ribcage, needle marks in the elbow area, crushed toes.

With no other cases to distract him and Barnes basically giving him free rein, Jim devotes his all to finding out about the victim but he virtually has nothing to go on. No hits in the fingerprints database, dental records, nothing. The unis canvassing the area brought him information about a white unmarked van seen in the area around the relevant time. But how many white vans were there in Gotham? Thousands.  
  
"Gotta know where to stop, Jim. This is a cold one," Harvey says without raising his head from the paperwork one day. "Just put it out of your mind."

"Come on, Harvey. A guy gets killed and no one even asks after him? That's cold, even for Gotham."

"Well, you said it, partner. It's Gotham. Although..."

"What?" Jim sparks up at the thoughtful note in Harvey's voice.

"This thing has a mob smell to it, you know. Just a gut feeling, but maybe you should work that angle."

"Me? What about you?"

"Hey. I had Fish, now I don't. And you got yourself a Penguin. So ask him."

Jim makes a face.

"Cobblepot?" he says doubtfully. "Wouldn't expect him to know of it."

"He’s still in the thick of it though. So, you want to get justice for the poor unwanted dead bloke, try that lead."  
  
Jim scowls but Harvey's right. It's not even a lead per se, it's a straw. But there really is no other option.

He drives to "Oswald's" and leaves his car a block away. Wouldn't do to advertise his going to a mob's joint. He walks to the club and there's a nagging feeling akin to deja vu.

He never liked this mob connection in the first place. Too much trouble, too little output. Jim knew he'd be tainted by associating with the mob in any way. Sure, most detectives had one or two contacts there, at least in the lower tier or vicinity. It's good form. Proves useful when chasing down leads. Isn't meant to get personal. It's usually the cops that have something on the mobsters to hold over them and make them comply with information requests. To have it in reverse is... not unusual in Gotham. But far more unfortunate.

Jim didn't expect to fall into the trap by actually doing the decent thing. His ideals were supposed to be his guiding light, not a stone tied to his feet. But he still couldn't pull the trigger and kill a man on the don's orders.

It didn't help that the man in question was a pathetic roughed up snitch with feverish eyes and a soft urgent voice. He was so pitiful begging for his life Jim hated him for sparking his protective instincts when he was to become an instrument of their mutual destruction; but more than that Jim hated himself for getting into this whole business altogether. But there were still things he wouldn't do. He wouldn't let go of the Waynes murder case. And he wouldn't pull the trigger to kill him. That meant the mob's taint began to set in his skin like a bad tattoo.

Gotham was dangerous like that. The plague and poison of good men. The personal vice of Jim Gordon. Gotham and Cobblepot both made sure Jim will never be clean again even if he still wasn't dirty.

In a way Jim was glad Cobblepot survived, a proof that doing the decent thing was actually possible in this forsaken city. Even if he still ended up irritated and annoyed by him. After all, mobsters were trouble. Mobsters that held your secrets were doubly so. Mobsters that knew your kindness were... the most dangerous. Unfortunately, Cobblepot was all three. And now that he’s gone and made himself the king of Gotham’s underworld he’s become even more dangerous to Jim.

But the city trains Jim to not be picky.

It’s a long time until the club’s business hours, but Jim finds the door open. The club is empty though, not a person inside. Jim expected to see security staff at the least, but he walks to the stage without seeing anyone. He calls out but there's no response.

His senses kick into high alert when even the second call out brings no answer. Jim unholsters and takes out his gun and proceeds deeper into the club.

The corridor backstage is empty, several doors there locked and seemingly undisturbed. There are stairs at the end of it and, looking up to check, Jim continues on to climb them.  
Another empty corridor on top with a couple more doors, but there's actually a sliver of light coming out from the farthest one. Jim walks to it slowly, gun at the ready, and listens. There are no sounds. Tensing up, he opens the door.

It’s the owner’s office, a massive desk in the middle of the room with a  plush chair behind it, a sofa in the corner, a small table with a coffee pot beside it.

There's also the hulking figure of Cobblepot's bodyguard collapsed by the door, and the man himself lying limp near the desk. No other people inside.  
  
"Cobblepot!" Jim calls, holstering his gun. Getting no answer he briefly checks the bodyguard's pulse. It's there, and Jim makes it to the other man.

Cobblepot is paler than usual and his eyelids aren’t completely closed which looks unnerving. Jim gulps and presses his fingers to the man's neck, feeling for pulse. It's faint. A bit of tension leaves Jim as he tries to shake Cobblepot awake with little success.  
  
"Come on, Cobblepot. Wake up. Wake _up_!"  
  
He stirs and squeezes his eyes shut - finally! - before blinking a few times. His gaze is unfocused.  
  
"Hey, Cobblepot. Hey, hey," Jim tries to get his attention while helping him into a sitting position. He snaps his fingers in front of the mobster's face a few times and that finally does the trick. Pale eyes focus on Jim but they lack their usual intensity and that doesn't sit well with Jim at all.  
  
"Hey. Cobblepot. Do you know where you are?"

"T-the club?" His voice is also a lot more feeble.

"Right. And I am?"

"Jim. You're Jim Gordon. Oh!" His eyes flicker and his hands grip Jim's palm. "Jim, my old friend. I am so glad to see you. What are you doing here?"  
  
And then Cobblepot seems to notice that he's sitting on the floor, Jim's arm around his shoulders, the figure of the bodyguard by the door.  
  
"What happened here?"

"I was hoping you would tell me that. Found you like this."

“I… I’m not sure.”

“Can you stand?”

Getting a nod from Cobblepot, Jim helps him to stand up and guides him to the sofa. The mobster is walking even more wobbly than usual and ends up crashing into Jim with every step.

“I am so sorry Jim. I never meant for you to see me in such a state,” he blurts out, face red with embarrassment.

“Just try to remember what happened,” Jim grumbles as he finally sits Cobblepot down.

“Gabe. Is… is he?..”

“Alive. Just out.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Jim looks at Cobblepot with a measure of surprise, he didn’t expect the mobster to care what happened to his goons. After all, weren’t they expendable by mob standards? But the relief on Cobblepot’s face is real, not there for his benefit.

“Is it common for the club to be empty at this hour?” Jim asks. “I met no staff downstairs and the door was open.”

“I am usually the first to arrive here anyway. They should be coming in in a couple of hours.”

“Okay. So, anything rings a bell? What happened here?”

While Cobblepot seems to be gathering his thoughts, Jim steps away and looks the room over, fishing for clues, but it’s relatively undisturbed and he can’t know if anything’s missing. Then Cobblepot speaks and Jim turns to face him again.

“I think… there was a dispute of some sorts. Someone from the late Don Maroni’s faction is quite unhappy with my new position, but they bungled up their attempted kill. Or were expected to.”

“You think this was meant to scare you?”

“Most certain that was the intention,” Oswald fidgets a little, than smiles at Jim with warmth. “But enough about me. I trust this is not simply a social call, not this early. Anything I can help you with, Jim?”

“Well, actually, yes.” Like always, Jim is uncomfortable around the other man who keeps insisting they’re friends, he’s irritated by his smiles and genuine affection and he’d be only too happy to keep it strictly professional. He wills himself to. “There’s been a murder and we have trouble identifying the victim. Thought it might be mob business, so… Do you think you could help?”

He takes out the photo of the unwanted dead guy and gives it to Cobblepot who looks it over. It doesn’t seem like he’s acquainted with the victim though.

“Why, certainly, Jim. Happy to. I’ll make some calls and return to you shortly.”

“Thanks,” Jim replies gruffly and attempts a smile. He really doesn’t know how to carry himself in Cobblepot’s presence and seeing how his purpose is served now he desperately wants to leave. But it doesn’t seem right to just leave an assault victim defenseless, even if said victim is a criminal himself, and Jim is at a loss. Thankfully, the bodyguard, Gabe, comes to and sits up, and Jim quickly excuses himself.

He hurries back downstairs, out of the club, to his car, and away from the weird little man with too sharp eyes that always keep him off balance.


	2. Brunello di Montalcino

The next day Jim finds an envelope on his desk simply addressed “ _To Jim_ ”. Inside there’s a note in a neat handwriting.

_“My dear friend, I am sorry to inform you the search has yielded no results for now. I am, however, exerting my resources to the fullest and I might have something for you by the end of the day. I would be glad to share it over a glass of wine if you could grace me with your presence in my club tonight._

_Most sincerely yours,_

_Oswald.”_

Jim scowls at the note, its style something out of a classic novel or something and it grates with him how polite and friendly it sounds. Mobsters have no business sounding that way. They should speak with threats and gruffness, in hostile tone, especially to the policemen. This though, it could have smelled of deceit if only Jim wasn’t a hundred percent sure that the words were true. Cobblepot was a strange one, really. He hasn’t called in any favours since Ogden Barker and that also made Jim uncomfortable around him, because he was always expecting him to bring it up and he was sure it would not be pleasant.

After all, what could a mobster want from a detective?

“Friendship, my ass,” he scowls again and stuffs the note in his pocket. He would be lying if he said Cobblepot didn’t get under his skin, inexplicable as it may be. But he has neither time nor desire to be dwelling on this, he still has a lot to do. Harvey won’t assist him anymore with the “Cold Johnny Doe case” he calls it, but that doesn’t stop Jim from canvassing the area once more or making a run to the missing persons department.

It brings no new leads and Jim feels like he’s going in circles, wasting his energy. He’s glad to be doing something, anything, because every time he’s unoccupied, his mind drifts to Lee, more specifically to their separation and his lack of proper emotional response. Oh, she would analyze the heck out of him if she only knew. Maybe she did though, maybe that was the reason she didn’t press when he said he couldn’t do it anymore. She was sad too, crying, and Jim felt despicable making her hurt but he knew it was for the best for both of them. After all, despite all his admiration and affection for her, there wasn’t anything else, and Lee was clearly wanting much more. Somehow Jim’s well-intended decisions always ended up hurting people instead.

He catches himself before he succumbs to these thoughts even more and makes a quick stop to grab a bite at a small café. He allows himself to relax a fraction. As his brain continues to work the case in background, Jim watches people pass by, their many faces a blur, a mass. Then something catches his eye, a black-haired young man, slight, dressed in a dark suit. Jim almost starts, but then he realizes it’s not Cobblepot. His gait is even, and he’s actually bulkier than the mobster, and he passes by without paying any attention to Jim. Jim rubs his nape and downs his coffee, trying to get rid of the weird feeling of disappointment.

 

He goes back to the precinct after and gets accosted by Ed right away.

“Detective Gordon!” he beams and hands him a piece of plastic. “Smell it.”

“Smell it,” Ed repeats insistently at Jim’s incredulous look.

Jim smells the offered plastic strip. It smells like… plastic, and a little like dirt.

“Do you notice the peculiarity, Detective?”

“Um… yeah, it smells like…”

“Tar! I’ve found traces of tar on the victim’s jeans, just a slight smudge, completely unnoticeable since the jeans are so dark-coloured, I even disregarded it at first, you know, because of the dead smell and garbage, ew, but then--“

“Ed!” Jim holds up a palm. “Are you saying the victim had tar on him? And that is important how?”

“Why, Detective, you shouldn’t check me like that. It places him at the Docks area, of course. The tar smell is quite clingy though, so he may not have been there at the same exact day, but…”

“That’s probably where he was moved from,” Jim says slowly. Finally. Some break. A location. Oh, he could jump for joy.

“Yes, that is the most probable conclusion.”

“Thanks, Ed!” Jim flashes him smile and begins to walk down to the traffic department. “You’re an absolute genius!”

At the traffic department Jim’s enthusiasm subsides considerably once he sees the amount of traffic cameras footage just from Thursday alone. At the same time he is thrilled at getting a break, even if it requires more work. Anything, to keep him busy and analyzing the relevant stuff, not the shambles of his personal life.

He watches the footage, taking notes of any white vans leaving the area, and so far he has ten, but only four of them have a clear view of their plates. Jim hasn’t eaten since midday and he’s dead tired but it feels _so_ good to be finally making some progress that he just has to ride the high.

Jim rubs his stinging eyes and stretches. His gaze falls on the wall clock and it’s way past 11 PM.

“Shit!”

Cobblepot. How could he forget.

Jim grabs his jacket and hurries to his car. This time he doesn’t bother with being seen and parks at the first spot he finds. Jim enters the club, at once assaulted by the noise and the mass of bodies rocking out in front of the stage. There’s clearly some entertainment on tonight.

Jim notices the massive bodyguard near the side door. Gabe, was it? He makes it to him through the crowd.

“The boss just retired upstairs,” Gabe grunts disapprovingly. “Waited for you long enough.”

“Look, can you just tell him I’m here now? It’s important.”

Gabe shoots him another dirty look but goes to check regardless.

“Boss says he’ll see you. He’s still in the office,” Gabe says upon his return, his face clearly showing that Jim doesn’t deserve this. “Says come right up.”

Jim side-steps the gruff bodyguard and climbs the familiar stairs, the office door closed this time. He knocks.

“Come in.”

The room has dim intimate lighting, the main source of it being the lamp on the desk where Cobblepot sits absorbed, writing something. Despite late hours he’s still impeccably dressed, Jim notices with some surprise, not a button undone on his collar. He’s even still wearing his jacket and tie. That’s probably why the first thing to get out of Jim’s mouth is, “Don’t tell me you sleep like that.”

The pen skids on paper and there’s a flush on Cobblepot’s face visible even in these conditions. “W-what?”

“I mean, I’d take my tie off the first chance I’d get. Hate the damn thing, a noose and a liability in a fight any day,” Jim says, stopping right across the desk.

“Well, I do try to avoid getting into fights if I can help it,” Cobblepot smiles, clearly flustered, but trying to regain composure. “You’re not here to discuss my sleeping habits though, are you? Please, sit, I do have something to tell you. Um… wine?”

“No, thanks,” Jim sits in the chair by the desk. “Although scratch that, I’ve been technically off-duty since a long time ago, I could use a drink.”

Cobblepot leaves the desk to get the wine from the minibar by the sofa. Jim watches him fuss over the glasses, and it’s an oddly relaxing sight, soft and dim, after hours of staring at the TV screen. The mobster’s movements are jerky and Jim thinks he’s not the only one who’s had a long day.

“Look, I’m sorry I took so long. There was a break in this case and I got into it.”

“Don’t worry, Jim, please. I know how you dedicated law enforcement people get, always following the trail like bloodhounds. I find it endearing.”

“Really? Why?”

“Nothing like a little predictability to help your plans along, you know?” Cobblepot returns with two glasses of red wine and hands one to Jim with a smirk.

“Should have expected that,” Jim says, rising the glass to his lips and taking a gulp. The wine is rich and delicate at once, full of flavour discernible even to Jim’s untrained palate. “Oh, this is nice.”

“Thank you. I have a fondness for the ’85 vintage,” Cobblepot remarks with satisfaction, taking a sip himself.

Instead of getting back to his chair, Cobblepot sits on the edge of the desk not far from Jim, forcing him to look up. If Jim wasn’t tired and pacified with drink, he’d be annoyed.

“So, you have something for me?”

“Yes. Your victim was a grunt for one of the lower tier families, the Montanari. His name’s Marco Fabbri. As far as I know, he was not connected to anyone of higher position, nor was he overly ambitious. I’m afraid I can shed no light on the motive for his disposal.”

A name. And a connection to a mob family. From having no leads Jim goes to having leads to choose from in one day and he’s feeling so elated he could hug Cobblepot on the spot. Has to be the wine’s fault, it’s too heady for him, he thinks, downing the glass.

“Thank you. This really helps a lot.”

The gratefulness probably makes it into his voice properly, because Cobblepot looks at him strangely and stays silent.

“Happy to oblige, Jim,” he says finally, his voice tense with something Jim feels he knows but can’t put his finger on. “Always.”

Jim puts the glass on the desk, and his gaze falls on Cobblepot’s long fingers coming to rest on the desk edge, twitching slightly as if wanting to do something. He follows the line of his arm to the sharp angle of his shoulders, higher, over the neck, the chiseled jawline. Jim is strangely fascinated by all the lines and shapes of the man in front of him, all telling him something obvious. And then it clicks.

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. This is reckless and inconsiderate and it might wreck this connection completely, but Jim still cannot help himself. Definitely the wine.

Jim leans back and loosens his tie, his eyes never leaving Cobblepot’s face.

“I guess I owe you another one,” Jim says in a low voice, undoing the first button of his collar. “Any ideas on how you’re going to collect?”

And yes, there it is, the slight part to his lips, another involuntary twitch of the fingers, the bob of the Adam’s apple. The flushed skin makes the freckles on his nose more apparent. Freckles. Huh.

“…No, Jim. I told you, friends don’t owe friends.”

_Don’t push your luck_. “Are you sure there’s nothing that you want from me?”

“Positive, Jim.” Cobblepot tears himself away from the desk abruptly and returns to his chair. “I will contact you if I find out anything else, though. Now, do you need a ride home?”

“Nah, my car’s right outside.”

“Do you think it’s wise to drive in…” Cobblepot stops himself mid-sentence. “Do be careful on your way back.”

Jim stands up and looks Cobblepot over with a playful smile. “Thanks for your concern.” And as he makes it to the door he really cannot help himself one last tease.

“I’m very grateful for your help. Honestly, you’ve been a real friend… Oswald.”

Jim is certain he can hear something crack as he closes the door behind him. Probably the pen.

He whistles as he makes it to his car. He hums a tune on his way home, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He knows he was a dick, but at the same time Jim gets almost the same kind of thrill as chasing a running criminal or being in a shootout gives him. The adrenaline rush. It’s been a while.

Oh, what favours he wouldn’t give now. Because now it’s him who holds a secret over Cobblepot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brunello di Montalcino is Tuscan red wine, considered one of the best reds. I figured Oswald would enjoy something complex like that.


	3. Legwork

The dream hits him at around 5 AM again, and Jim wakes up gulping air, his hands still trying to grasp the elusive lifeline. He’s drowned so many times in this dream but it still hits him hard - the cold engulfing darkness, the desolation, and most of all the voice he can never reach. Jim wipes his wet face and swings his legs off the bed. He sits for a while, just cradling his head in his hands, persuading himself that there’s nothing he could have done to save the unknown owner of the voice. He shouldn’t feel so rotten in the first place. The dream isn’t real. The voice isn’t real. Its pull isn’t real and Jim doesn’t owe the voice anything. It’s just all in his head. Nothing else.

He never had to explain the dream to Lee. She never asked, and he never wanted to tell. The dream was… only his problem.

The hot shower helps him restore his mood to something resembling normalcy and by the time his coffee is ready Jim feels more like himself. Enough to start reviewing the case files again in light of the new information.

The Montanari family is middle-tier but they deal mostly in racketeering and have to be reckoned with. So this Fabbri guy worked for the Montanari, but was their lack of searching for him due to his low position, or was there some deeper scheme? Maybe he was involved in something the Montanari family was trying to keep on the down low and coming forward with searching for a grunt would bring unwanted attention. Or they did Fabbri in themselves for something. Or they knew the killer. Actually, the mafia not contacting the police about their dead is the way of things and not surprising at all.

Jim rubs his face and stacks the files back. He should stop with pointless theorizing, it’s unwise so early in the case and bound to lead him off the track. He should work with what he knows, even if it’s not much. And he knows that the victim worked for Montanari. He could just try asking the don himself.

But unlike Cobblepot, Fernando Montanari will not be accommodating to a police detective pestering him with questions, official business or no.

Jim smiles involuntarily at the thought of how he actually made Cobblepot lose his cool yesterday. In hindsight it was a mean thing to do, playing with a person’s feelings, a person who’d just helped you too. But hey, he was just making sure he read the situation right, and it’s not like he was leading Cobblepot on with promises or something. Just a bit of a joke, even if in bad taste. Cobblepot will live.

But then Jim remembers how Cobblepot looked at him when he’d thanked the mobster for his help. His face, always a pleasant mask, looked naked in his raw desire for acceptance. For Jim’s acceptance. Jim feels rotten now, for taking advantage of that. He would like to believe himself above such methods, but it seems that he was wrong and he wasn’t the shining paragon of justice after all. Cobblepot being a mobster has nothing to do with that. Jim was wrong, period.

Perhaps he owes him an apology.

Well, next time he sees him. If he doesn’t forget.

But now he has to follow the lead.

 

Jim drives to the upper Midtown area of Gotham where the Montanari operate and asks around. A couple of hours later and 50 dollars shorter Jim finally gets to a small office building. The receptionist is surprised when he asks for Fernando Montanari, but makes a few calls which summon down a suave-looking fellow who has a secretary demeanor but everything about him screams ‘mafia’. He takes Jim to the third floor of the building and shows him into a corner office.

In there, behind a large desk, sits a tall and severe man with grey temples and a permanent frown on his face. He doesn’t measure up to Cobblepot’s impeccable appearance even with his clearly expensive but off the rack suit, but then again no one does, Jim notes.

“Detective. To what do I owe this visit?”, Montanari speaks in a deep voice.

“Mr. Montanari. Does the name ‘Marco Fabbri’ mean anything to you?”

“I can’t say it does, Detective. Should it?”

“I suppose it should,” Jim says, approaching the man and taking out the photo from his pocket. He slides it across the desk. “Considering he worked for you.”

Jim watches for the reaction but the don’s face doesn’t betray anything when he looks at the photo without touching it.

“Worked for me? Detective, I can’t possibly know everyone who works for me, and even if I could, I still don’t know that Mario fellow. He ran into some trouble?”

“Marco. And yeah. He’s dead. Killed, to be precise, and tortured before that. Still not ringing any bells, Mr. Montanari?”

“Not at all. Why did you think it would, Detective?” The don looks at Jim, raising his eyebrows.

“I have my sources,” Jim says in a clipped tone.

“Your sources,” the Don snorts derisively. “‘Source’, singular. It’s the Penguin who put you up to this charade, Detective. Everyone knows you’re in bed with him.”

Jim feels his face grow hot all of a sudden. “It’s your word against my sources’ and I trust my sources more than I trust you, Mr. Montanari. I suggest you try and recall something about Marco Fabbri. Contact me when you do.”

Jim turns on his heels and heads for the door but the don speaks after him, coldly.

“This is a wild goose chase, Detective. The little freak set you up on it to rattle his competition. I advise you to reconsider your choice of bedfellows.”

The heat seeps out of Jim, settling deeper in his chest like an uncomfortable lump, as he turns slowly to face the don.

“What exactly do you mean?”

“What I said. The Penguin wants me out even if he smiles to my face. He must have thought a police visit would be unwelcome to me. He’s wrong. I have nothing to hide. So give my regards to your amoroso, and good day.”

Jim closes the distance to the desk in two steps and slams his hands on the surface, making the don jump.

“I think it’s you who’s trying to rattle someone,” Jim speaks through his teeth. “And you’re too eager to get rid of me for a person who has nothing to hide. I know you have something to do with Marco Fabbri’s death and I _will_ get to the bottom of this. Mark my words, Mr. Montanari.”

And then Jim turns and strides out of the office. He gets into his car, seething, and drives towards Theater district, going above speed limit. It’s only when he’s stuck in a small traffic jam that he comes to his senses enough to will himself to calm down. Jim takes several deep breaths, deliberately concentrating on breathing and not the words still ringing in his ears.

That slimy son of a bitch Fernando Montanari had to know something about Fabbri’s death. He wouldn’t be so insistently hostile otherwise, police or no. But maybe, Jim slows down, it truly has something to do with Cobblepot and not the victim or the police visit after all. Jim said he trusted his source more than he did Montanari and he wasn’t lying about that. Cobblepot never deceived him directly.

 

“Lie by omission is still a lie, Oswald,” Jim says disapprovingly by the way of greeting as he walks into Cobblepot’s office. Cobblepot is standing by the window, looking down at the street, but he turns and smiles pleasantly upon hearing Jim’s voice.

“Jim! So glad to--,” and then smile slides off when Cobblepot takes in the look on Jim’s face. “I’m not sure what you mean…”

“Don’t toy with me,” Jim all but growls, stepping closer to the other man. “You sent me to Montanari to scare your competition. I’m not your thug.”

“James! I think you’re mistaken. I never lied to you and the information I provided had nothing to do with my dealings with the Montanari.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me they were your rivals?”

Cobblepot steps away from Jim, but Jim follows, refusing to give up whatever leverage he has. He’s almost touching Cobblepot now, and the mobster’s eyes dart to his lips for one short moment. He speaks, his warm breath hitting Jim’s skin.

“It wasn’t relevant, Jim.”

Jim doesn’t move from his position. He watches Cobblepot swallow and glance at his lips again.

“You’re becoming a frequent guest here, Jim,” Cobblepot babbles, attempting levity. “I’m only hoping we could make your visits more pleasant.”

“Oh, you can make this pleasant,” Jim drawls, moving just a fraction closer, his thigh almost getting between Cobblepot’s, and the mobster literally stops breathing, but then Jim distances himself and walks to the chair. He sits in it, resting his ankle on his knee and clasping his hands behind his head. “Start by telling me all about the Montanari, not just the ‘relevant’ parts.”

He watches Cobblepot close his eyes and take a deep breath, not moving from the spot. And then the mask’s on.

“Jim, I’ve been nothing but honest with you,” he speaks, just a little breathy. “The Montanari are my rivals and competition, they control a significant part of Midtown Gotham, but with my new position all of the former families are now my competition. Some I have brought into my fold, some I’m working on. I don’t see how that ties into your case though, since I haven’t killed your victim nor did I order anyone to kill any of the Montanari.”

“Fernando Montanari doesn’t think so. He knows you’re out to get him.”

“In all honesty, Jim, I couldn’t care less what he thinks,” Cobblepot says, ruffled. He turns his back to Jim, gazing outside the window again. “I will bring him under control soon enough.”

Jim watches him stand there, back straight and head raised, and doesn’t have a slightest doubt in the truth of his words. Jim changes his pose into a less aggressive one, hanging his arms behind the chair’s back.

“So you had no ulterior motives for bringing Montanari to my attention? None whatsoever?”

“None, Jim. Only trying to help.”

Cobblepot turns to face him again and Jim cannot make out his expression against the light.

“I wish you trusted me a little more, my friend.”

“Oswald…” Jim feels that uncomfortable lump in his chest again, because Cobblepot’s voice has a hurt tone and Jim knows he’s the cause. “I’d trust you over Montanari any day.”

Cobblepot lets out a strained laugh. “Well, let’s be content with that for now. But, Jim, I’m afraid I’ve been a poor host today. Let me at least offer you some refreshments, even if overdue.”

“Thanks, but I really gotta go. I’m still not finished with those surveillance tapes,” Jim says, standing up. “Let me know if something comes up in regards to my case, okay?”

“Of course, Jim.”

He doesn’t try to approach Jim as he leaves and just smiles at him, his face still unreadable. Jim can’t help feeling mildly disappointed.

 

Jim returns to the precinct and pulls up files on the Montanari family. It’s all the usual, and nothing really catches his eye, no recent arrests or run-ins with anyone in particular. He takes notes of possible places to investigate later and returns to surveillance footage from the docks. Harvey brings him coffee and pats him on the shoulder but doesn’t stay to help. He still thinks the case is a waste of time, and when Jim marks down yet another white van, he feels inclined to agree. But he still has the mob connection, and the plates to eight white vans leaving docks on Thursday night.

It’s when he runs the plates that he feels especially discouraged. They belong to three different delivery companies and it’s highly unlikely that any evidence survived - even if one of those cars was indeed the one to transport the body from the docks. Jim makes the calls, arranging for the inspection, and the delivery companies have five vans available between them, three others being used in the moment. Harvey actually volunteers to help investigate the two vans of the Flagship Express company this time, leaving Jim to cover the rest.

Jim drives to the Orient Star company, still feeling grateful. Three vans there provide no clues, their drivers having alibis with multiple witnesses accounting for every mile of their way that Thursday. Refusing to be discouraged, Jim drives to the last company, the Poseidon, as the dusk sets in. He checks out the last two vans, finding nothing again, and calls Harvey.

“Any luck there, partner?”

“Nada, Jim. Like I told you, it’s a waste of time.”

“Well, maybe you’re right. Can I still count on you to check the two vans that will be available at Flagship tomorrow?”

“Sure. But you’ll owe me a drink.”

“Deal,” Jim says with a grin and hangs up. He’ll have to return to Poseidon tomorrow as well, to check out the last van. Judging by the way the case progresses, Jim doesn’t feel too optimistic about the visit, but he refuses to give up. There has to be something. He just hasn’t found it yet.

Jim is halfway home when dispatch comes through on his radio.

“Detective Gordon. Another dead body in a trash bin found in the Narrows, Aspen street, 4.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Amoroso' - this word kept popping up when I looked up synonyms for 'sugar daddy'.


	4. Smoke and Mirrors

Jim arrives at the scene of the crime as the night sets in. It’s cordoned off, all the usual, but none of the forensic staff are there yet. The uniformed officer in charge shows him to the place the body’s at. This time it’s still inside the trash bin, but from what Jim can see the dead man is medium-built and on the short side, he has long dark hair, and an expression of terror is forever etched on his face. Jim shines his flashlight at the chest area of the victim, and there, once again obscured by the hands, are several wounds, blood from them staining the shirt.

“Looks like the same MO, Peters,” Jim tells the uni, still standing by him. “Who found the body this time?”

“An old lady, Detective Gordon. Was taking out her trash, and whoa, got within an inch of a heart attack, that one. Officer Teak’s with her now.”

“Get someone to check if there was a white van nearby, okay? Thanks.”

Jim walks to the officer sitting with the witness on the porch. The woman, grey-haired and wrinkled, is obviously shaken, her eyes wet, arms wrapped tightly around her body. The blanket keeps sliding off her shoulders and she doesn’t seem to notice it unless the officer puts it back on carefully. Jim nods to the officer and smiles politely at the old woman.

“Ma’am? I’m a detective, my name is James Gordon. Can you tell me yours?”

His voice seems to jerk her out of the shock and she looks at him, and then her eyes dart in the direction of the body. Jim shifts his position, trying to shield the scary spot from the woman.

“Ma’am?”

“My dog was playing,” she says abruptly, her voice flat and so quiet Jim has to strain his ears. “And he tumbled the vase over, and it shattered itself to pieces. I had to sweep it, you see. And when… and when I lid opened…”  The woman stops, and hugs herself tighter, the blanket slipping off again. “He there was.”

“It must have been very frightening, ma’am,” Jim says gently, reaching for the blanket and putting it back over the old woman’s shoulders. “Now, can you tell me your name?”

“I’m Petra… Petra Neumann.”

“Mrs. Neumann, you’re being very brave,” Jim speaks, his hands still on her narrow shoulders, squeezing reassuringly. “But I need you to be even braver. I need you to try and recall whether you saw anything unusual, or heard any suspicious noise tonight. Can you do that for me?”

Her eyes focus on Jim’s face and she nods. He smiles at her. “Good.”

“Well, I… I watched TV loud and I heard nothing. But there was a car. A big car outside all day parked.”

“A white van?” But why all day then?

“No. It was a black limousine.”

“Okay,” Jim smiles at the woman again, gently, and she seems calmer now, looking at him with a hint of interest. “Now, the man that you found… have you ever seen him before?”

“No… No, I don’t think so.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Neumann. You’ve been a great help,” Jim straightens up and sees the flashing lights of the ambulance and the police cars, arriving at the scene. Finally. “Now, Officer Teak will escort you, and if you remember anything, please contact me, alright?”

He watches them go, the old lady looking back at him every once in a while.

“Always the heartthrob, eh, Jimbo?”

“Harvey.”

“Got anything useful out of her?”

“No. She didn’t see anything. The only thing of interest is a black sedan parked here all day, but that could be anything,” Jim says, watching forensic specialists scurrying about the scene. Maybe this time the perp dropped something. Maybe this time they’ll have a proper lead.

“Jim, are you sure it’s the same MO?” Harvey asks in a resigned tone. “Absolutely?”

“We’ll need autopsy first… but yeah, Harv, I’m sure it is. I have a feeling it won’t be the last one too.”

“So it’s mob stuff, eh? Families fighting over turf? Did your pal Penguin say anything?”

Cobblepot. Right. Jim will have to pay him yet another visit, this time with new photo and new questions. He may have been telling the truth before, but this new development means there’s something bigger going on. Jim feels it in his gut. Cobblepot wasn’t telling him everything, _again_ , the little bastard. Jim unclenches his fist when he notices that his nails dig painfully into his palm.

“No. He said he had nothing to do with the first murder.”

“Uh-huh. And seeing what an upstanding citizen he is, you believed him, eh?”

“Get off my case, Harvey, what do you want me to do?” Jim retorts, his temper flaring. “You pushed me to check it with him yourself.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s the snitch, always trying to play both sides. I didn’t mean for you to actually take him at face value, Jim,” Harvey shakes his head in disdain. “You should know better than to trust that little son of a bitch.”

And even though Jim doesn’t want to admit it, Harvey is right. He should’ve known better. He should’ve taken everything Cobblepot told him with a spoonful of salt. Because Cobblepot is a liar. Is a criminal. Is much too clever and Jim knows it. But there are things that Harvey doesn’t know, things that put Cobblepot in a different light for Jim, always.

Like, you can never lie with your eyes.

But he won’t tell Harvey that.

“Look, I’m not saying he’s guilty or anything, so don’t get your panties in a twist,” Harvey continues, placating, noticing the angry jut of Jim’s chin. “Geez. You’re always so touchy when we come up on this subject.”

Harvey takes a swig out of his flask and offers it to Jim, who shakes his head, not quite mollified.

“You’re still the best detective we’ve got, so if you think Penguin’s not the one who done it, well… Still would be easier, though, than chasing this unknown psycho.”

“You’re not even the one who’s had to sit through surveillance videos,” Jim snorts. “So… the best you’ve got, eh?”

“You definitely beat Alvarez.”

Jim grins, clapping Harvey on the shoulder, and walks to his car. He still has to wait for Ed to perform an autopsy. For the clues to be consolidated. For the canvass team to provide reports. It won’t be done until tomorrow. He can go home and rest. He deserves rest. He needs rest.

He curses through his teeth and makes the turn for the nightclub anyway.

 

If anyone pressed, Jim would be unable to tell what irked him more, - the fact that Cobblepot kept giving him insufficient info, leading him on; or that he believed him when the mobster said that was all he had. He should’ve just slammed him into the wall like always and demanded that he spilled everything. Why should he care about his good opinion or his feelings anyway? Cobblepot’s a criminal. He doesn’t deserve that. Doesn’t deserve Jim’s consideration. Doesn’t deserve anything.

Jim keeps riling himself up, the understanding of it never making it to the fore, and so he is able to keep being angry all the way to the club, where he storms past Gabe, who makes an attempt to stop him, without giving the thug a second glance. Jim is still angry when he pounds on the door of Cobblepot’s office. He gets even angrier when he doesn’t get a response. He pounds on the door again.

“I am trying to sleep, for Heaven’s sake! What is the meaning of this, Gabriel?” Jim hears the familiar voice laced with irritation coming from further upstairs, and stomps towards it, almost crashing into Cobblepot on the steps.

“Wha- Jim?”

Jim is just as surprised but he grabs a fistful of Cobblepot’s robe anyway and gives the man a firm shake.

“Why did you lie to me?” he growls in his face.

“Jim, I-- I don’t understand...”

“Enough of your games, Cobblepot!” Jim all but spits. “There’s another murder. I bet it’s another of the Montanari, and I know that you’re behind it!”

There are heavy steps behind him and Jim feels a hand reaching for him, sees a reflection of his own menace in Cobblepot’s eyes. Jim’s whole body is taut with tension, ready to snap.

“That’s alright, Gabe. Please leave us now,” Jim hears Cobblepot say clippedly, the mobster’s eyes locked on his; and not a moment too soon before Jim was about to lash out.

“Boss, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Now leave us.”

Gabe cannot disobey the steel in Cobblepot’s voice and Jim hears him backing away and downstairs, muttering something under his breath.

“Jim.”

Jim doesn’t want to hear anything. Not even excuses. He doesn’t even know what he wants at this point. Certainly not Cobblepot’s cool fingers on his hand, their touch searing and unbearable.

“Unhand me, Jim,” Cobblepot says, and there’s steel and command in his words, not unlike his dismissal of Gabe, but at the same time decidedly different. Velvety. “Please.”

Jim doesn’t want to, immediately contrary. He stares at Cobblepot, his face so close, too close, his eyes dangerous.

“Please let go, Jim,” he repeats, and Jim gives in, not because he feels intimidated, but because he doesn’t trust himself one bit.

Cobblepot straightens his robe in short jerky movements and raises his chin a little but doesn’t step back. He looks at Jim, his face tight, unreadable once again.

“Now,” he says, voice carefully controlled. “What brings you here in such a state, James?”

And Jim wants to stay calm, he so wants to stay calm. He tries his best to _stay calm_.

“Another dead body, looks the same as the first one. I’m certain it’s another of Montanari’s men,” he sounds detached and clinical even to himself. “I’m also certain that you’re behind it.”

He isn’t. He only wants to get a rise out of this ridiculously composed man, wants him to bring in that rush again, pull that danger to the surface. Wants it to be real.

Cobblepot just raises his eyebrows at him. “This again? I’m growing tired of this particular accusation, James.”

“Are you involved in it or not?”

“What’s it to you, Jim?” Cobblepot asks with a cocky half-smile.

The tension that was building up in Jim ever since his talk with Fernando Montanari, that fed upon his anger and frustration, finally erupts. He grabs Cobblepot by the front of his robe again and slams him into the wall hard, knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Do you _enjoy_ making a fool out of me?” Jim snarls and shakes him again. “Do you?”

Jim watches Cobblepot gasp, looks in his dazed eyes, and he just has to press even closer, to look deeper and spot the lie.

“Do you get off on it, huh?”

 

...Oh.

Jim pushes himself off Cobblepot, his skin suddenly burning, and turns away.

“I’m done with you,” he says with feeling. “I’m done.”

He marches out of the club and drives through night Gotham, his heart pounding, his breath shallow. Once home, Jim fishes out a long-forgotten pack of cigarettes out of the drawer, and for the first time since the army smokes three, one after another, sitting on the couch. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Neumann speaks a bit off because I was trying to give her a grammatical, not phonetic, German accent. I'm not sure how it worked out, but it was interesting to look up :)
> 
> Also, feedback is always greatly appreciated!


	5. Crepi il Lupo

Jim wakes up weary and with a stiff neck, the smell of cigarettes still clinging to him, the mean taste of tobacco sour in his mouth. He rubs his face and walks to the bathroom, strips and throws his clothes into the laundry bin in disgust. He gets into the shower and welcomes warm water washing away the smell from his skin and his hair. The memories are not that easily rid of.

That rotten liar. That sorry son of a bitch, he manipulated Jim again, led him right off the track. He put on a show of being a friend, of being eager to help, just to mislead. Harvey is right, there’s no such thing as trusting a criminal. There can be no such thing.

And why is it suddenly so important to Jim that Cobblepot is _trustworthy_? That he could, indeed, be his friend, despite their differences? Just because he still looked at Jim sometimes and saw a hero, not a tool, not another dirty cop, a dime a dozen in Gotham, and Jim believed that?

You just can’t lie with your eyes. And Cobblepot’s eyes when he looks at Jim, oh God.

Jim groans, flushing from head to toe, and turns his face to the water. All he sees behind his eyelids is Cobblepot’s mouth, open in a gasp, and he almost feels the quivering of Cobblepot’s body against his own, just like yesterday, so, so…

Jim reaches down slowly, leisurely, savouring the memory of him under his hands, undeniably vulnerable to Jim’s touch-- and jerks his hand to the tap instead, making the water run cold, colder, freezing.

He won’t have it.

Jim steps out of the shower shivering and dries himself off, attacking his skin with the towel. He won’t think about it. He refuses to think about it.

His movements mechanic, he goes to the bedroom and changes into clean clothes. He doesn’t eat anything for breakfast, opting for bad coffee and a stale sandwich from the vending machine at the precinct instead.

“You look terrible, Detective Gordon,” Ed says to him when Jim enters the medical examiner’s office.

“Gee, nice to see you too, Ed. Please tell me you found something useful during the autopsy.”

Ed shakes his head. “Only confirmation of your suspicions, Detective. Same modus operandi. Same weapon, exactly. Evidence of torture, and he got creative this time, didn’t think anyone would remember to use salt for that, so just let me tell you about those sliced…”

“Ed, please,” Jim raises his hand to stop him. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“Oh,” Ed wilts. “Well, there are same torture marks as the ones present last time and more. Nothing to ID the victim though. Still same - wallet in his pocket, money intact, no cards.”

“Any hits in the database?” Jim asks, already knowing the answer.

“None. And no tar on him or his clothes, either.”

“Dammit,” Jim says, his worst expectations confirmed. “Nothing to go on, again. What’s the time of death, at least?”

“Between 19 and 20, this Tuesday. The body was moved, too. Really, the same MO.”

“How does the killer get them, do you think, Ed? First guy was a mob thug, I’m certain this one as well. They don’t look weak or anything. They should have put up a fight.”

“True, Detective. But I found no evidence of struggle, no drugs in their systems.”

Jim rubs his forehead. “That means he’s not killing them immediately. We already knew that.”

Ed looks at him somewhat apologetically. “I’ll tell you if anything new comes up, Detective.”

Jim thanks him and returns to his desk. He takes out the Montanari files again, and pores over them, looking for hints. He looks through the evidence found at the scene, but the killer is nothing if not thorough. Garbage covers many tracks, there’s no sorting through that many pieces of it, and all evidence would be contaminated regardless.

It’s so devious in its simplicity that it practically screams of Cobblepot’s touch.

Don’t you dare think about Cobblepot’s _touch_.

He can’t pin it on him, anyway. No evidence. No witnesses. Dozens of potential perpetrators at his disposal, easily upgraded to fall guys. But… it seems too much of a hassle for a family like the Montanari. Why would Cobblepot even go after them like that? It seems to have a personal smell to it - not thinking about _the_ _smell_ either - but when and where could the Montanari cross Cobblepot that badly, to warrant such retaliation? There’s nothing in the files to suggest that.

The canvass reports are the same as last time. Miraculously, in a city with a population of 8 million or so, no one has heard or seen a thing. Jim sighs. This just means more legwork. And okay, first the workload was supposed to get his mind off Lee. Now he has to keep a certain other person off his mind, and work won’t help with that, not when they’re that intertwined. How does he end up in one mess after another every single time, again? It seems like Gotham is laughing at Jim Gordon, no lucky breaks for him at all. In bocca al lupo indeed, like Don Falcone had wished him so long ago, the condescending old fart.

And that’s another thought linked to Cobblepot so intimately, so viscerally, just stop. Did it start then? That day on the pier, he trembled and begged, and that was…

_Stop_.

Jim throws the report he was no longer reading on his desk with more vehemence than it deserved, grabs his jacket and strides out of the precinct. He’ll go take a look at the scene at daytime, maybe something will clue him in.

 

He drives to the address in the Narrows and parks half a block away from the scene. It’s in the nicer part of the district, where people could actually consider talking to the police officers and even come forward if they were witnesses to something. But Jim walks and asks around and still comes up empty. Mrs. Neumann tries to get him to stay for tea but he just pets her dog and declines, claiming to be busy. It’s not even a lie. The neighbours did notice the black sedan that day, and Jim has a partial plate number. He calls the precinct to have it run, and then gets a call from Harvey right away.

“Hey Jimbo. The Flagship vans are a dud, nothing there, and the drivers are just a regular bunch, alibis and all. Any luck on your end?”

Jim actually forgot about the trip to Poseidon. He still had to check out that last van.

“I’m on my way there, Harvey. Decided to take a look at the crime scene once again.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing yet, Harv,” Jim replies, trying not to show his frustration, not when Harvey’s actually helping. “I’m waiting on some plates.”

“Got ya, partner. Hey, about that drink you owe me. Let’s go out tonight, clear our heads, how’s that sound to you?”

“Yeah, let’s.” It actually sounds really good. It might actually help.

“Great. Catch you later then.”

Jim drives to Poseidon and checks the last van, having neither optimism nor enthusiasm for it. It’s futile. There’s no evidence that there ever was a body in this van. It most certainly isn’t the right van at all. And no one in the neighbourhood mentioned a white van this time. It could have been a wild goose chase from the start.

Jim’s stomach growls, that one morning sandwich long forgotten. He stops for a bite at the first place he sees, a small pizzeria, and checks his notes while waiting for his order. He’s actually not that far from one of the Montanari’s joints, a gym, a possible money laundering machine. GCPD doesn’t have enough evidence to even get a warrant for the place. GCPD just never has enough evidence for anything. Now, Jim could go upfront all police-like, claim an anonymous tip about a gunshot or something, giving probable cause and everything. When he first came to Gotham he might have done just that. Not now. The city really stains him in her colours.

He eats quickly, not registering the taste of food at all, a plan forming in his mind. He’ll just have to be devious, like a certain someone. _No_. Devious like himself. Harvey always tells him he has ‘cop’ written all over him even in his civvies. He’ll just have to shift it somewhat.

Before leaving the pizzeria, Jim visits the bathroom and thoroughly messes his hair and shirt and crooks his tie. It’s nothing special, but a different outfit would be too obvious a disguise. This will have to do.

Jim drives to the gym and parks his car. The place looks decidedly middle class, not too fancy, not too shabby, just a regular gym, nothing interesting here, please be on your way, officer. Hiding in plain sight.

He takes off his jacket and carries it unceremoniously over his shoulder, coming through the door. Inside Jim looks around trying not to be too conspicuous about it. There’s a receptionist, a young woman. He puts on his best smile as he approaches her.

“Hi!”

“Oh, hi!” She smiles back eagerly. “How can I help you?”

“Truth is, I’m looking for my nephew. He told me about this place, but it’s been a week since I last heard from him and I’m worried, ya know?” He leans in conspiratorially. “It’s a big city.”

“Yeah, Mom always worries about me as well,” she giggles. “Maybe your nephew found a girl or something!”

“Oh, his mother would be furious!” Jim exclaims, “You just don’t mess with a Fabbri, she’ll have my hide as well! Do you think you could know him? About this tall, dark hair, rather handsome, our boy Marco.”

“Oh! Marco! I do know him, well, he tried to hit on me once. Other than that, uh…”

Jim can’t believe his luck. Eat that, Don Falcone!

“Maybe he had some friends here? Someone he worked out with?”

“Uh, yeah, I think. There’s Fabio, but he’s not here today… oh! Right. He hung out with Vinni too, he’s here now. You could ask him. He’s at pec deck machine.”

Jim pats her hand awkwardly. “Thanks for saving my ass.”

The receptionist giggles again and shoos him away. Jim walks further into the training area, not many people there for the time of day. The man at the pec deck machine is taller and heavier than Harvey, he’s working out methodically and with full dedication. Jim feels intimidated by him all of a sudden and tries his best not to come out aggressively.

“Vinni? Are you Vinni?”

“Who’s asking?” Vinni grunts between reps, hardly looking at Jim at all.

“I’m looking for a friend of mine, Marco, Marco Fabbri. They told me you two worked out together.”

“I asked,” Vinni glowers at him. “‘Who’s asking?’”

“Oh! Right. I’m Jim. Jim H-Humboldt. I’m looking for Marco.”

“You a copper?” He probably completed his set since he’s stopping and wiping his face with a towel, still glowering at Jim.

“Me? No way!” Jim snorts. “I’m just a clerk. Anyway, it’s really important that I find Marco. Do you know where he is?”

“Maybe. Depends on why you want him.”

“He owes me money,” Jim says, insistent. “I need him to pay it back today.”

Vinni laughs at him then, with dark mirth, slapping his knee. Jim doesn’t have to pretend to be taken aback.

“What’s so funny?” He bristles.

“You outta luck then. Marco got offed last week.”

“What?”

“I’m saying he’s dead, ‘clerk’. You ain’t getting your money outta him.”

“But… but what am I gonna do?” Jim is fed up with this charade. The straightforward police way came so much easier to him. How do liars do that? How does Cobblepot?

“Did he have any relatives, at least?”

“What, you wanna sponge off his grieving mother or a widow?” Vinni grins humourlessly now, baring his teeth like a beast. “Beat it, ‘clerk’. You’re messing up my pace.”

Vinni cracks his knuckles pointedly and returns to working the machine, staring at Jim with disgust. Jim decides to back away.

But this is so pointless. He learned nothing at all. Sure, he can probably tail this Vinni, but to what end? Jim doubts a man this big could go stuffing the bodies of his gym buddies into trash bins completely unnoticed. Wait. There was another name.

“Hey, so I spoke with Vinni,” Jim says, returning to the receptionist. “He said Marco could be crashing at Fabio’s place. Could you, maybe, tell where it is to me?” He smiles, doing his best to look sincere. “Pretty please?”

“Uh… Well, okay, but only since you asked so nicely!” She giggles again. “We’re not supposed to, and stuff.”

“I swear, I only want to check if Marco’s there. I won’t tell a soul,” Jim presses his hand to his chest, trying for earnesty.

The girl giggles some more, and Jim gets a piece of paper with the address and a cute wink. He smiles and retreats, his capacity for lies exhausted completely.

Once in his car, Jim sighs and wipes his forehead. What the hell. Lying and pretending takes too much effort, too much… everything. Why would anyone do that?

He checks the address. It’s tucked on the other end of the lower Midtown Gotham, where it’s hardly better than the nicer Narrows. Makes sense.

What doesn’t make sense is Cobblepot haunting his every thought today. Humboldt, really? He couldn’t pick any other name, like Smith, or Martinez, or Kean at least? The liar’s lying alias just had to crop up in his mind.

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Focus. Focus. He can make it to Fabio’s place before dark. If he gets lucky, he might find something out, something new, that could make sense of the case. But he doesn’t feel lucky at all.

When Jim gets to the address, he notices that the mailbox for Fabio’s apartment is chock full of mail, some ads and newspapers spilling out on the floor. He is completely unsurprised when the knock on the door brings no answer. Jim listens closely, but there are no sounds from the other side of the door.

He rattles the door but the lock doesn’t seem to be flimsy enough to be opened with a card trick. So Jim looks around and, seeing and hearing nothing, kicks the door hard. The lock breaks, and the door opens into a darkened hallway. Jim enters, gun at the ready.

Inside the one bedroom apartment is empty. There’s food in the fridge though, some takeout and groceries, mostly expired. There’s also a mouldy piece of cheese forgotten on a plate in the kitchen. No one has been here for at least three days, maybe more. Jim looks around the living room when a photo catches his eye. It’s an Italian family, dark curls and bright smiling eyes. An older man, a woman of similar age, a younger woman, and, in the middle of the photo, there’s his second John Doe.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In bocca al lupo_ is an Italian idiom with a meaning of _break a leg_.  
>  It literally means _in the mouth of the wolf_ , and the appropriate response is _crepi il lupo_ , or _may the wolf die_.  
>  It stuck with me ever since Don Falcone used it in the 1st ep, since it didn't seem like he was really wishing Jim luck or anything.


	6. Refrain

 

Jim rummages around the room some more. There are some letters from Naples addressed to ‘Fabio Gallo’, which Jim gathers to be the victim’s name. He looks them through briefly, but he can’t make anything out of the Italian scribble. There are unpaid bills, some sports equipment tucked in the corner, a magazine lying on the coffee table. The room looks exactly as if its owner was going to return any minute.

But where was he taken from, then? There are no signs of struggle anywhere in the apartment. The bedroom search results in a box of SIG Sauer ammo, but no weapon itself. Other than that… nothing.

Jim sits on the couch to gather his thoughts. Fabio is definitely connected to the Montanari, through the first victim and the gym. He’s probably another grunt for the family. So, he goes out armed, - when, for God’s sake, in the morning, in the evening? - and summarily disappears to turn up in Mrs. Neumann’s trash bin. Where did he even go?

Jim calls it in. This place could do with a thorough forensic sweep although Jim is certain nothing of particular importance should turn up. When did he become so fatalistic concerning this case? He was perfectly enthused about it yesterday. There was the thrill of the chase, that adrenaline rush, his mind was working in overdrive. Now… he almost doesn’t care.

Is it because of Cobblepot again? When it became clearer he was involved somehow Jim didn’t want to pursue the case anymore. Jim scoffs at himself. He’s a cop, still a decent cop, despite Gotham’s efforts to make him anything but, his job and duty is to chase and apprehend criminals. Cobblepot is a criminal. He has no sway over Jim.

The forensic team arrives and he tells them what he’d done so far. After that he just gets out from under their feet. If he could find anything on his own, he probably would have done that on his first sweep.

Harvey calls him then and they meet up in their favourite place. Jim brings him up to date with his findings, but Harvey just shrugs at this and orders another drink. This is not the time for work, he tells him, try to relax, he says, slapping his shoulder.

Jim swirls his drink in his glass, hardly enjoying it at all. Harvey gives him a sidelong glance.

“C’mon, partner. I see this is doing nothing for ya. What’s wrong?” He asks, concern in his eyes. “You’re still moping over Lee?”

“I don’t know, Harvey. It’s just… nothing makes sense to me anymore. Why am I doing this?”

“Whoa. You’ve not drunk enough to be philosophical. That bad it got you, huh?”

Jim isn’t sure this is about Lee. He’s also not sure he wants to talk to Harvey about it. That’s just it. He isn’t sure of anything anymore.

“I guess,” is what he tells Harvey, if only to prevent further questions.

“I’d hook you up with some of the Duchess’ girls, but that’s not really your thing, eh. Such a boy scout, Jimbo.” Harvey takes a big gulp of his drink. “Try and find someone though, if only for a night. I’m sure it won’t compare, but it might help anyway.”

“I’ll think about it, Harv,” Jim says, knowing that he won’t. He feels that any attempt at sexual activity with anyone would bring forth revelations he’s not ready to face. Like maybe it hasn’t been about Lee at all, from the very start. That just makes his relationship with her even more fucked up than he thought, and him even more despicable for allowing it. This idea of going out for drinks backfires just splendidly.

“Sorry, Harv. I’m bad company tonight and I just wanna get home. Let’s do it some other day, huh?”

“Sure, Jim. Don’t sweat it,” Harvey says, giving him a half-hug. “See ya tomorrow.”

Jim pats Harvey’s back and returns to his car. He starts it and just sits for a while, listening to the radio, but not really. This has been a long day.

And he should’ve talked to Harvey more. He’s his friend, one of the few he does have. But somehow this state Jim’s in is not for discussion even with him. Gotham really is a lonely place.

 

Jim starts driving towards his home, the city lights dancing in his eyes, the roads almost empty at this late hour. It starts to rain, that deceptive drizzle that promises to become a downpour and Jim just sighs. But driving still comforts him somehow, and he doesn’t really want to get home that fast, to his lonely apartment, dark and cold, and not a comfort at all. He drives on, taking turns that lead him away from his place, just listening to the rain. It feels good, not thinking. Not analyzing. Sure, he could never completely stop doing that, but now… now the pouring rain drowns his every thought and Jim finally feels calm spread through him. Maybe the night out wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

It’s only when Jim slows down to let a pedestrian cross the street that he notices the flicker of purple out of the corner of his eye. It’s a purple umbrella sign.

Unthinkingly, Jim drove to Theater district and ended up at the club again. He bites his lip and swears through his teeth. Calm evaporates from him like a drop of water on a scalding hot pan, giving in to tension and irritation. He just can’t get rid of Cobblepot today, it seems.

He’s too frustrated to continue driving, so he just parks his car across the club and waits for his hands to stop trembling. Calm, what calm? He’s taut again, boiling over with too many emotions at once, and if he had to pick one, he’d go with ‘anger’. At whom it is directed is a whole new can of worms, but hey, of course it’s Cobblepot’s fault. It’s easy to blame Cobblepot. It makes sense to blame him.

It seems he’s not the only one to think so. The doors of the club burst open and Cobblepot rushes out into the rain as fast as his bad leg allows him, two guys chasing him. They’re both bigger than the mobster, bigger than Jim, and they catch up with Cobblepot soon enough and grab him.

The man really has a propensity for getting slammed into walls, Jim thinks, tearing out of his car. Before he makes it to them, the goon holding Cobblepot hits him hard in the stomach, twice, and Cobblepot gasps and coughs, but still tries to kick his way out of the hold. The other goon whips out a knife and approaches with a menacing grin on his face.

Jim charges at him full force, putting all of his mass into a shoulder ram and knocks him away, going immediately for the other goon’s ribs with his elbow. The goon releases his hold on Cobblepot momentarily, but Jim is attacked by the knife wielder before he can properly shove him off the mobster. Jim steps back, allowing the knife to slash past him, and strikes the attacker sharply on the wrist, knocking the weapon out and letting forward momentum do the rest. He kicks the other guy in the knee, and Cobblepot also lands a kick to his stomach, and when the goon doubles up, Cobblepot crashes his locked fists over his head, knocking him out. The other guy charges at Jim again, and Jim attempts an uppercut which he dodges, but it gives Jim an opening to get behind the man and lock him in a choke hold. It’s almost slipping off because of the rain, but Jim flexes his muscles stubbornly, pushing his arm to press on the carotid artery until the goon passes out. He lets him fall to the ground and steps away, breathing heavily, anger out of his system somewhat.

Cobblepot looks at him, also struggling for breath, disbelief all over his face. Now that Jim is closer, he notices that the self-proclaimed king of Gotham has blood spatter on his face and on his shirt, and a bruise starting to bloom on his cheek. Jim moves next to him and his first instinct is to reach his hand to wipe the blood off Cobblepot’s face.

“Detective?” the mobster asks in a small voice.

The word stops him as sure as a drawn weapon and Jim drops his hand, never getting to touch him in the end. Instead, he gestures to the blood on his shirt.

“That yours?”

Cobblepot looks down, as if only noticing it now. He winces. “Gabe’s.”

“Are there more of them inside?”

“No,” Cobblepot shakes his head. “Just these two.”

“Alright,” Jim looks back at the knocked out goons, blinking away the rain. “You going to press charges?” Cobblepot just raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t think so.”

Jim notices that the mobster is shivering, wetted suit clinging to his slight frame. He looks like a miserable stick figure and Jim has to consciously stop his hand from reaching out _again_. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”

“I need my phone,” Cobblepot says tersely, limping past Jim to the club entrance, his back impossibly straight and rigid. Jim follows him inside in apprehension. There’s broken furniture everywhere, tables overturned, glass shards all over the floor. The club is completely trashed. Gabe is lying by the stage, blood pooling around his shoulder, his face bruised heavily, but he’s still breathing.

Cobblepot finds his phone amidst the ruins of a bar and he’s quickly dialing the number. “Butch? I need you at the club as fast as possible. Bring a doctor.”

“No, I’m fine,” he continues impatiently. “Just get here.”

Jim kneels by Gabe and looks at the wound he received, a wide nasty gash. It doesn’t look too deep, but the amount of blood is alarming, so Jim grabs the nearest tablecloth, tears it apart and presses the fabric to the wound. Cobblepot limps to the both of them, still on his phone.

“Victor. Come to the club, now. Bring your crew. There’s some trash that needs to be taken out,” and he hangs up, to drop down on the floor unceremoniously beside Gabe and across from Jim. He reaches out to the compress, already red with blood, his hand tense. “Will he make it?”

“Depends on how fast your doctor gets here,” Jim grumbles as their fingers brush over the stained cloth. “What’s happened here again? Another dispute of yours?”

“More or less. They were certainly more determined this time,” Cobblepot replies, a touch of hysteria sneaking into his voice and Jim raises his head to look at him. He doesn’t expect the electric intensity of the pale green eyes locking onto his, and he forgets to breathe. No wonder he can’t get Cobblepot out of his head. The look in these eyes lures all of his demons to the surface.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Cobblepot continues, softer. “And in my time of need. Thank you... my friend.”

“My name,” Jim says, his throat dry and constricted. Cobblepot looks puzzled. “Say my name.”

“James,” he breathes out readily. And God, the things it does to Jim.

He covers Cobblepot’s hand on the compress with his own, locking him in place, and sways forward. The eyes beckon and taunt him, pulling him closer, and Jim wants to fall and keep falling, giving in completely, and it is this exact thought that makes him freeze an inch away from Cobblepot’s mouth.

He can’t. If he gives in now, it would render his everything pointless. How can he consider himself a good cop when he allows himself intimacy with a known criminal, a kingpin of the underworld no less? It’s a dark path that leads further into darkness and there’s no washing off that stain.

Jim grits his teeth and pushes Cobblepot’s hand firmly into the compress.

“There,” he grates out. “Press it like this.”

He straightens, avoiding to look at the mobster, and backs away a step. The glass shards crack under his boots. The club is an awful mess, a complete ruin. It must be a severe blow to Cobblepot, almost as severe as an attempt on his life.

“You still sleep upstairs? Is that why you’re virtually alone here?”

“Mostly, yes,” the softness is drained from his voice, replaced by rigid edges, and it hurts Jim almost physically. “This club required a lot of effort.”

“You really should move to somewhere safer. It’s the second time they attack you here.”

“‘Safer’,” Cobblepot chuckles humourlessly. “Are you offering your place to crash at, like a good friend you are?”

Despite his cutting tone, images flash through Jim’s mind, unbidden, - Cobblepot at his apartment, wearing Jim’s clothes for comfort, sitting in his kitchen in the morning as Jim prepares breakfast, smiling, Cobblepot in his bed-- No. You can’t have this. You can’t. And if Cobblepot’s voice is any indicator, you _won’t_ , and losing the chance you didn’t intend to take shouldn’t feel so awful in the first place.

“Don’t be alarmed, I am not planning to impose,” Cobblepot continues, painfully polite. “And I shall consider your advice, well-intended I’m sure. But leaving this position will send the wrong message out, and while you may not appreciate it, you can certainly understand why I’m unable to allow that at the moment.”

“It’s that important to you?” Jim asks, finally turning back to him, but when Cobblepot moves to look up Jim immediately averts his eyes. “No, forget I asked.”

What would he do with the answer anyway? Especially if he says that Jim is more important to him. Will that make it alright to want him, will it clean up their slate, erasing violence and blood and dirt Gotham inflicted on them? Jim can try lying to himself all he wants but he knows the answer to that.

The door opens and Victor Zsasz enters with two of his girls. They immediately train their guns on Jim, and he freezes in his spot.

“Boss, is that more of the trash to take out?” The assassin asks with a content smile. Jim always knew Zsasz wasn’t fond of him and wouldn’t pass on an opportunity to shoot him. The hostility feels revitalizing even, something sure and constant amid this mess.

“No, Victor. I need your skills for the two outside. Bring them in,” Cobblepot says, beckoning one of the girls to Gabe. He stands up awkwardly when she presses on the cloth instead of him, and looks square in Jim’s eyes. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Detective. I wouldn’t wish for you to compromise your integrity.”

There’s a finality to his words, a coldness, that washes over Jim like nothing before, but it’s the look in Cobblepot’s eyes that makes Jim’s heart sink. It’s so contemptuous, so… closed.

He swallows and turns to exit, walking robotically, feeling that piercing stare bore into his back until the door finally closes between them.

The rain still pours. Jim turns his face up to the sky, letting the drops hit him hard and cold. There’s the shuffle behind him as Zsasz orders the rest of his crew to drag the knocked out goons into the club, and Jim makes himself to return to his car. He drives straight home, shivering, and passes out, drained of all feeling, as soon as he hits the bed.

 

 

 


	7. Such a Strange Shape

 

His sleep is restless, fitful, he keeps dozing off and waking up again. He is haunted by scraps of dreams he can’t remember and he wakes up even more tired than before he went to sleep. For the first time since he’s joined the force Jim Gordon actually considers calling in sick.

But what would he do at home, wallow in… whatever this soup he’s gotten himself into is? Face his demons? It won’t do anyone any good. So Jim pulls himself together, goes through his morning routine, and drives to the precinct.

The results from Fabio Gallo’s apartment search are exactly as discouraging as Jim expected. More letters from Naples - his family still there, and a couple from Caserta - a girlfriend. They provide some insight on why there’s no record of Fabio anywhere. He came into the country illegally, and Marco Fabbri was probably the same. Smuggled into the country of opportunity, worked off their debt to the mafia family that made it possible, got killed as a result.

If the cases were separate, it could’ve been something personal for either of the victims. But the cases are linked. That strengthens the possibility of it being mob business if anyone still had any doubts, Gotham being Gotham, and that brings in Cobblepot.

Jim reads morning reports and papers with a sense of dread deep in his chest. Because for all of Cobblepot’s talk of ‘not compromising his integrity’, they both knew Jim wouldn’t be able to ignore an open attack when he learned about it. Sure, he had no details. He had enough. The Montanari name, attempts on Cobblepot’s life, Victor’s… “skills”. It doesn’t take a genius to deduce what’s happening.

So far it has been blow for blow. Dead Montanari thug - attempt on Cobblepot’s life - another dead Montanari thug - another, more vicious attempt. The next one has to be another blow to the Montanari, if this control game of theirs continues.

But there was no blow - yet. The immediate retaliation would be rash, but Cobblepot is prone to rash decisions when his pride is injured. And if there wasn’t one to make it to headlines yet meant the kingpin was planning something more elegant than wiping out the competition with a bang.

He talked of his position yesterday and how he couldn’t afford an otherwise sensible and tactical retreat. That just solidifies Jim’s suspicions. He’s got to put a tail on the mobster, see what goes on in his secret empire.

But whom can Jim trust to do that?

Certainly not himself. He has to face the fact that he’s the most subjective in regards to this man and he won’t be able to ignore… anything, really. He’d also be made in minutes, so well-known to Cobblepot’s faction by now. And there’s also the nagging certainty that Cobblepot will be furious with him if he tried to tail him, and why Jim cares about that is another matter altogether.

Harvey? Harvey is subjective as well, but polarly so. He never liked Cobblepot to begin with and after Fish’s demise he loathes him all the more. Jim doesn’t want to suspect his partner of dirty dealings but his opinion would be definitely skewed. Also, Cobblepot will make him and will be, again, furious.

Any of the old guys could be bought or would be too lackadaisical about it. Any of the new guys don’t have the grit for it. And none know Cobblepot well enough not to jump the gun.

It’s a stalemate, Jim sighs.

Perhaps he could tail the Montanari. Cobblepot definitely has eyes on them. Jim will be made immediately. But maybe this he could outsource.

Or not. Does he really want to? Because there are only so many outcomes to this, and some of them involve Cobblepot behind bars or worse, dead.

But Jim can’t do nothing. Can he? It’s his case. But everyone in the precinct knows what a cold case is. This being a series of murders - two do constitute a series, right? - everyone knows how to deal with it. You examine what you have waiting for insight and info, and you wait for the killer to slip up. He can’t keep pulling off perfect murders, someone’s bound to notice him sooner or later. Sure, it’s a passive approach. Uncharacteristical for Jim. But he could claim he was waiting on some information…

Right. The black sedan from the Narrows.

Jim goes to the traffic department and checks what they have on the partial plate number from yesterday. And hey, it’s a car that belongs to a businessman of some importance. What was he doing so openly in the Narrows? Was he involved with the mob, with the victim, with the killer? Jim decides it’s worth finding out the whys and the whats.

But as he drives through the morning traffic to the office of the businessman, Jim can’t shut his mind to thinking about yesterday. Remembering Cobblepot, no, Oswald. He won’t allow himself to act on this attraction, but at least in his private thoughts he can allow this intimacy and call him by his name, not in teasing or manipulation, but in sincerity. It’s as close as it gets now to… a touch.

He totally wrecked it, didn’t he. Oswald must have thought Jim was toying with him, with his feelings again, and he’s not the person to repeatedly forgive such slights. It’s probably all over between them, without even starting, without even blooming into anything. Despite them still being businesslike about it - Oswald was civil, if cold, yesterday. And they could probably continue the relationship from before, Jim coming for information, Oswald asking for favours. _Don’t be a fool._ If his eyes were any indication, Oswald won’t ask you for anything now. Oswald wouldn’t even call you by your name. You’re just a ‘Detective’ to him now, an enemy. Possibly a tool to use at best. A dime a dozen in Gotham. It is over and it hurts way more than it should.

Work, yeah. Could’ve helped. If Oswald wasn’t involved. If only he wasn’t involved. If only just one of them could give.

Jim really wants a drink right now.

He arrives at the office and gets to see the businessman, preparing to shake him down for all the information he has, but the man is desperate for the police to keep him out of papers and so he spills everything easily. Such a simple and sordid story it is too. Of course he’s married. Of course he’s got a lover. Of course they meet discreetly until the one time they get careless. An expensive car in the Narrows, really? Bound to be noticed.

This has nothing to do with the case, which Jim tells the man before taking his leave. It’s the businessman’s job to figure out how to wiggle free. Jim advises him to come clean though, this city has enough lies and broken hearts as it is.

Jim drives back to the precinct slowly, not at all eager to get behind the desk and pore over files and reports, raking his mind about how to investigate the case and avoid investigating Oswald at the same time. Not such a good cop anymore. Not the model of justice, not someone to look up to and not a hero. Why not slip all the way down if it could bring some happiness to you and to him? But it’s much too late for that. Stick with the ‘good cop’ for consistency at least.

Dispatch comes through with an armed robbery in progress. Jim goes out of desperation, dreading the return to the precinct. Facing criminals who are ready to kill sounds like a better option, a simpler option.

The cars are all over the area, cops bustling about with crowd control. The officer in charge is not happy to see Jim.

“We don’t require Homicide here yet,” he says, grumpy. “And hoping for ‘never’.”

Tough luck.

“Not here to breathe down your neck, Officer,” Jim says. “But who knows when you might need extra hands.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the officer grumbles at him. “Just don’t get in the way.”

“Tell me about the situation at least.”

“What’s to tell? There’s this psycho kid who went into the store brandishing his gun all around, shot the cashier in the stomach, and now he’s barricaded in there with three hostages, demanding two mil hard cash and a heli.”

“Anyone leading the negotiations?”

“What, you’re volunteering? None here are qualified,” the officer sighs. “We will though, once we’re set and ready to go in from the back.”

“And when is that?” Jim looks at the store, a hostage standing in front of the window with raised hands, a clear warning and a living shield.

“I just called for backup.”

Jim thinks about it. The plan is… unsafe. Too reckless. Not the way good policemen should act with the hostages in the picture. If it was him at the window, heck, sure, he’d take the risk. But a civilian… And there’s also the shot cashier. Stomach injuries are tricky at best. Who knows how much time they really have.

The officer steps away, talking on his radio, urging his men to hurry up. Jim makes a decision on the spot.

He takes off his jacket and puts it on the car hood. He puts his gun on top of it. He takes his badge into his hand, and starts walking towards the store entrance slowly, his hands raised and in clear view.

“GCPD! I’m Detective Gordon. I am unarmed. Can I enter?” he exclaims, carrying his voice.

“I don’t want no coppers here!” the robber yells from inside. “Don’t you try anything!”

“I only want to make an exchange for the wounded,” Jim says. “Release the one you shot to get medical help, you’ll get me instead.”

“Why would I want ya?!”

“Listen, kid, if the cashier dies on you, you’ll get max penalty. Now you still have the chance to walk away.”

Jim approaches the entrance, glass door shattered and hanging open.

“Because otherwise we will get you. No amount of money will help you escape.”

Jim stands in the doorway and sees inside clearly. The cashier, a young hispanic man, lies on the floor face up, getting paler by the minute. There’s dangerously little blood around him.

Another hostage, a middle-aged man, is cowering at the shelf not far from the cashier, clearly terrified out of his mind.

The woman standing in front of the window is trembling visibly, a gun trained on her back by the robber, also a young man, white, in ragged clothes.

Jim takes it all in and looks straight at the robber, and makes the final step into the store.

“The wounded requires immediate medical help. He has internal bleeding, very dangerous. Do you really want to start at maximum security, kid? Do you really want his death on your conscience?”

“Let him out. I’ll stay,” Jim continues, gently. The robber gulps and thinks it over.

“Fine!” he barks in the end. “He can go! You stay.”

The cashier twitches feebly but he can’t get up.

“He’ll need help to get out,” Jim points out, still keeping his voice gentle. “He can’t do it on his own.”

“You damn pig, you, you!” The robber is spitting, even more stressed and Jim thinks for a split second that he may have pushed too far, but then the robber points his gun at the cowering man. “You, old man! Help him out!”

The hostage looks at him in shock and doesn’t move. “Come on, move it! Do you want him to die, huh?!”

The cowering man slowly crawls to the cashier, shuddering from head to toe, and helps him get up, so slowly, so awkwardly Jim fears they would aggravate the robber all the more. But then they start wobbling towards the exit and the cashier winces in pain clutching at his stomach, but he walks, and then, after a few excruciating minutes, they’re out. Jim lets out a small sigh of relief.

He makes half a step forward, but the robber immediately points the gun at the last hostage.

“Don’t even think about it, pig,” he says. “Or she gets it.”

“I’m not moving,” Jim says, raising his hands a fraction higher to indicate that he poses no threat. He looks at the robber, and it’s just a young man, scruffy and stressed, and who knows what goes on in his head.

“Did you tell the truth?” The robber asks, looking at him with a weird mix of anxiety and hate. “I won’t get max if he lives?”

“I could talk to the DA, pull some strings. But if he dies, it won’t be good for you, kid.” Jim’s shoulders are going stiff and there’s an itch in his arm, so annoying. He has to hurry up and defuse the situation. “Why did you do… this?”

“None of your business!” the robber yells, and his gun jerks to Jim and then to the woman again. “You police are no help at all, so don’t pretend that you’re trying!”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Jim says, placating. “I can help you, if you just try and help me understand.”

The robber is dubious, confusion written on his face, and he lowers the gun a little, but then the back door bursts open with a loud crash.

_Oh shit_ flashes through Jim’s mind as he jumps to get the hostage woman out of the line of fire as police officers flood the store and all hell breaks loose. He and the woman hit the floor and something stings Jim’s bicep as the gunshots are fired, glass shattering over them, and Jim hears some officer yelp in pain, and then the robber cries out, and then, somehow, it’s all over.

The robber is injured badly, and is taken away in an ambulance. The woman hostage is unharmed, save for some scratches, and she thanks Jim tearfully as she is, in turn, led to another ambulance car. Someone finds Jim’s badge in the wreckage of the store and brings it to him along with his jacket and his gun, as the medic patches up a bullet graze on Jim’s shoulder. It hurts, but in a weirdly satisfying way, like a badge of honour, a prize for being a ‘good cop’.

 

“Gordon! In my office, now!” Barnes barks at him as soon as Jim steps into the precinct. Jim walks into the captain’s office, defiance settling in him before Barnes even says anything else.

“What the hell were you thinking, Gordon? What kind of stunt is that? Do you realize you could jeopardize the lives of everyone at the scene with your maverick tendencies?” Barnes continues to chew him out, red with anger. “I should suspend you. So consider yourself lucky we’re shorthanded as it is. But if you pull a stunt like that again, Gordon, I swear you won’t get away with it. Dismissed!”

That didn’t go so bad, huh. But then Jim returns to his desk and sees Harvey look at him and, oh, that’s gonna be worse.

“Jim, I swear. This has gotta stop,” Harvey says, placing his hands on Jim’s shoulders. “I get it, pal, I get it. It’s bad for you, what’s happened with Lee and you, and you deal the way you deal. But you’re verging on suicidal, Jim, and I’m not okay with that, alright?”

“Thanks, Harvey,” Jim says with an awkward smile, guilt creeping in. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that, partner.” Harvey stays silent for a while, as if making up his mind. “You know I don’t like to pry, Jim. But maybe it’s not all done with Lee? Maybe I could, I dunno, help you two patch up?”

“It’s not about Lee!” Jim flares up instantly and shakes Harvey’s hands off. It’s not about Lee, and it’s not about him, and it’s _not_ about the criminal kingpin who won’t leave his thoughts _at all_. Jim is just trying to be the good cop that Gotham needs without knowing it, and if everything else is against him, so be it!

“I’m sorry, Jim. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve,” Harvey says apologetically, his gaze kind and worried. Jim feels terrible and angry and guilty, and what the hell is wrong with him.

“It’s okay, Harv,” he says, still bristling. “I appreciate your concern.”

He spends the rest of the day writing the report about the store incident and doesn’t touch the files of the Montanari grunts at all.

That night the dream hits him the hardest yet.

 

 

 


	8. Fallout

 

It’s always dark and cold and lonely. It’s always the rain, and Jim can’t make up or down as he drowns, pushed by the wind, pulled by the dark.

It’s always the voice calling him.

But tonight it’s all escalating. Jim hears the voice call his name in such obvious pain and torment Jim rushes towards it literally ripping at the seams. And then he drowns, all the separate pieces of him, swallowed by the ice cold darkness, and it takes so long, so long for Jim to drown. He’s stuck in this cold limbo, neither dead nor alive, pulled down while fighting to reach the voice. At some moment Jim realizes it’s a dream, but he can’t wake up even knowing that, and he screams, but he can make no sound. Then it all stops.

Jim falls out of his bed gulping for oxygen. He grabs the blanket and wraps himself in it, trying to warm up, sitting on the floor. After a few minutes of violent shivering Jim walks to the kitchen, makes himself some coffee and gulps it down, never noticing the taste. He’s drenched in cold sweat and needs a shower, but the thought of getting into water terrifies him irrationally, like only dreams can do. He settles for splashing his face with the hottest tap water he can bear, and then sits on his couch, wrapped in his blanket still, unable to calm down.

What the hell is wrong with him. Jim can’t make sense of it, can’t help feeling that the dream would go away if only he manages to reach and save the person calling him. But it gets worse, not better, when he tries so hard to be the good cop he set out to be. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? He saved four people yesterday, maybe more if he counts the policemen. So what if he put himself at risk? It’s his life, his choice. His duty as a policeman is to protect people, and that’s what he did. It all justifies the risk he took.

_Except you didn’t do it for the people_ , Jim hears a voice in his head that sounds both like Harvey and Lee. _You just did it to avoid facing the truth._

And the truth is that Jim doesn’t want to investigate Oswald, doesn’t want Oswald to be involved in the murders, doesn’t want Oswald to be angry at him, and he’d give anything for Oswald to look at him the way he used to, before.

Anything, but not his fucking principles, it seems.

He drifts off and jerks awake, distressed, as soon as he realizes he’s slipping into deeper sleep. It seems like trying to rest is futile, as always.

Jim steels himself before getting into the shower, but once the water starts pouring, hot and vectored, so unlike the ice cold engulfing void of his dream, that he relaxes and almost laughs at himself. Getting so bent out of shape over a stupid dream, really, Jim chastises himself. You’ll get through it, you’re tough, you’re a cop. And cops don’t have relationships with criminals, at least not the kind of relationships that make you want to see their sleepy smile first thing in the morning.

Jim decides to walk to work today, to get the unwanted thoughts from his head. He doesn’t need to dwell on it. It is over between them, over for good, he should be happy, not conflicted. And since he’s such a good cop he should be able to figure out Oswald’s role in this, and continue with the investigation regardless of his feelings. Feelings are redundant.

Once at the precinct, Jim goes to the medical examiner’s office.

“Anything new pop up?” Jim asks Ed who’s staring at something through the microscope. Ed raises his head and makes an apologetic smile.

“Unfortunately, no, Detective. It’s amazing how average this dead grunt was. Usually people have all kinds of vices or secrets, but he didn’t even have an outrageous porn magazine, can you believe it? The only outrageous thing about him is his blandness.”

“Anything in common between him and the first one? I know I asked, but…”

“No, Detective. The first victim is a poor point of reference, since we know nothing about him except the name. How did you find that out, by the way?”

“CI, Ed. Too bad that was the only useful thing out of him.”

How did Oswald even manage that, Jim wonders. The address Fabbri left with the gym was a fake one.

“I see. So it’s this,” Ed grins, clearly inspired. “If you have me, you want to share me. Once you share me, you won’t have me. What am I?”

“A secret,” Jim says, half-heartedly. He’s heard this one before, but Ed still beams at him, as if trying to cheer him up.

“Exactly!”

He has no time for this.

“Well… keep me posted just in case, alright?” Jim says, backing out before Ed comes up with more.

“Will do, Detective.”

 

Jim returns to his desk and sees Harvey with a box of doughnuts which he pushes closer to Jim in invitation. Jim takes one gratefully.

“I gather you’d like to know that the guy from yesterday pulled through. He’s gonna recover and everything. The doctors said it was a very close call.”

“Right. Thanks for telling me.” Jim put the incident and the wounded out of his mind as soon as he got home, but it is nice to know that he didn’t risk in vain. Now Barnes can’t be that set on suspending him, huh.

“What about the robber? What was his deal?”

“Drugs,” Harvey shrugs. “Narcos are on him.”

Figures.

“Also there’s word on the street somebody tried to bump off Penguin,” Harvey says, thoughtful. Jim’s heart drops to his stomach. Another attempt? Did he make it? He stays frozen and doesn’t say anything. “It’s only a matter of time before somebody gets that little snitch. Better make use of him while you can.”

Jim balls his fists. “Someone tried to kill him, huh?” He asks, controlling his voice to be flat, uninterested.

“Yeah. The day before yesterday, or something. But he keeps Victor Zsasz close, so the killer didn’t succeed.”

Oh. So Harvey’s talking about the time Jim was there. And it’s not a new attempt, and that means Oswald is unharmed. Jim lets out a breath, the tension leaving him.

“But it really is a matter of time. Don’t you think you should squeeze him for what he’s worth, Jimbo?”

Jim shakes his head, refusing to think of _squeezing_ Oswald and how close, exactly, he keeps Zsasz. “He’s not worth the time, Harvey. It’s all lies with him, too long to sift through them.”

“Well, if you say so. But he got you a lead last time, no? What about this one?”

“I doubt he’d be useful. After all… he might be involved,” Jim says, uneasy.

“Whoa. Weren’t you biting my head off a while ago insisting he’s innocent? What changed your mind?” Harvey squints at him, licking sugar from his thumb.

“I’m not taking it back. And it’s true that he stands to benefit the most if don Montanari loses control of Midtown Gotham. But…”

“But?”

“It’s out of character for him to go about it this way, is all,” Jim voices the thought that was nagging at him the moment Harvey threw suspicion Oswald’s way. It is unnatural for him to resort to such meager pawn taking. Oswald would either blindside his competition completely, taking him with a long con, or be most direct about it and eliminate his opponent once and for all. This, taking out family grunts… it’s no more than a flea bite to a family like Montanari, and Oswald would never settle to be perceived that way, not now. But could it be a part of that long con?

Jim rubs his nape as Harvey looks at him in contemplation.

“Huh. Well, you always gave him too much credit, partner. Not worth it,” Harvey says at last. “But we have no leads, again.”

So it’s back to reports and files and witness statements, all useless, all shedding no light on the case. Jim drinks coffee and they finish the box of doughnuts between them, and make no progress at all. Fabio Gallo’s neighbours stated they have seen him visited by several people, Fabbri among them. As for others… the search is still ongoing, but GCPD only has descriptions and it’s insufficient.

At one point Jim just throws another useless report on his desk and gets up.

“I’m going to the scene, Harv. I’m suffocating here,” Jim says, reaching for his jacket.

“Want me to come with?”

“Nah. I’m just gonna look around, you stick with the paperwork,” Jim grins and walks off.

He takes a cab to the Narrows, the corner the first victim was found at. He looks at it from this angle and that, some idea festering inside without manifesting, nagging, nagging. Then Jim walks to the second scene, thinking hard. There’s something there he’s missing, something vital.

Let’s say it is indeed Oswald’s doing. Part of his intricate smoke and mirrors play. There are things that just don’t fit.

Like the torture. Jim doesn’t fool himself thinking Oswald incapable of torture, he knows for a fact that he is quite capable indeed. But always for a reason. To get information, sure. To teach someone else a lesson, sure. What goal could be furthered by torturing Montanari grunts? Now, the don’s lieutenants, that could be worthwhile. Not run-of-the-mill thugs.

It’s like a piece from a different puzzle. It’s senseless, mad, and Oswald has always been pragmatic, and, in his own peculiar way, reasonable. That’s what made him an asset, what made Jim come to him, among other things. Those other things though…

Not the physical attraction, certainly. That only reared its head recently, or maybe he just gave up on trying to mask it from himself by his gruffness towards the man. But before it there was this disturbing, uncalled for, knowledge of belonging, like they were similar at their core, just different, like two sides of one coin. Jim tries to deny it. Jim wants to deny it, still, - after all, a mobster? Similar to him? But then there’s Oswald’s sharp wit, his perceptiveness and surprising bouts of kindness, the traits Jim values, all feeding into what can only be summed as admiration. And as Jim tried to hide it from the world, himself included, he didn’t notice it settling so deep inside his heart.

It gets darker and starts to rain. Jim is crossing the bridge from the Narrows and only then realizes that he was so lost in thought he forgot to check the second scene out. But the rain is so heavy and sudden, and he’s already walked so far from the place that returning is pointless. Jim tries to hail a cab, but no luck. It’s almost like he’s invisible, not there at all.

Jim turns the collar of his jacket higher and walks in the general direction of the subway. In minutes he’s soaked, his face wet, water getting in his eyes with every step. It’s hard to understand how far he’s walked, everything around a wet blur. And it’s getting darker still, and colder with the wind picking up, and it’s like the light seeped out completely, the darkness creeping closer, and he’s so alone and so desolate. His face is growing numb, he is disoriented, stalled, and he waits for that inevitable pull down, breathing heavily as if trying to store oxygen for when he starts to drown, dreading it with every second to the point he might just scream--

“Detective?”

A different word. No pull. Soft tone, and, Jim notices, a cover from the rain. He closes his eyes slowly, focusing on breathing - he’s not in the dream, he’s not - and he opens them again, seeing Oswald in front of him, holding his umbrella over both of them, his face concerned.

“Oswald?” Jim calls, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

“Detective, why are you out in such dreadful weather without a proper umbrella? You’re drenched,” Oswald tsks disapprovingly, concern disappearing under the mask of irritation. “What would Gotham do without her honest man, when you get sick?”

“Caught me unprepared, that’s all,” Jim says, still reeling. But it’s Oswald in front of him, and he looks at him differently still, but he’s here.

“Nonsense. You’re already half-sick, Detective, you should’ve seen your face. Let me walk you to the station,” Oswald says firmly. “I insist.”

“Okay,” Jim nods. Oswald is always too kind, too lenient with him. He should know better by now, shouldn’t he, should keep away from him, save himself the trouble. And yet he still goes out of his way for Jim.

They walk slowly, too far apart, their opposite shoulders soaking wet. Oswald is limping heavier than usual too, the umbrella shaking above them and splattering them with raindrops. Come to think of it, he usually uses his umbrella as a cane, but now the weather forces him to abandon this aid. Jim reaches out to take the umbrella from Oswald’s hand, covering it with his palm without really meaning to.

“I’ll carry it. You take my arm for support,” Jim says, avoiding to look Oswald in the eye, and, after a beat, Oswald releases his hold on the handle and hooks his arm gingerly through Jim’s.

They resume walking, not much faster somehow, and Jim feels Oswald’s proximity with all of his body, with all of his skin, so painfully aware of how close they actually are physically while seeming miles apart otherwise. The arm in the crook of his elbow feels hot through their clothes, uneasy, and it’s suddenly very difficult to walk and breathe at the same time. Jim’s heart is beating wildly, its sound ringing in his ears and drowning out the noise of the rain.

Jim sneaks a glance at Oswald, who’s not looking at him, but his face is so tense, his eyes so focused on something in the distance that Jim knows the other man is at least somewhat affected by their contact. Then Oswald glances sideways at Jim from under his lashes, their eyes meeting, and they halt completely in the middle of the sidewalk.

Images float through Jim’s mind, of him closing the remaining distance between them and planting a kiss on that mouth that fascinates him beyond comprehension; of pulling Oswald closer and putting his arms around his waist, fitting them together. Jim wants and wants and does nothing, unable to move, overcome by his guilt and knowledge that the way he’d treated Oswald all this time gives him no right to even think it, much less act on it. And he can’t fix it, but...

“I’m sorry,” Jim says quietly. Oswald’s eyes flicker with something like surprise, but he remains silent.

“I treated you like shit and you didn’t deserve it,” Jim continues, “I’m not asking you to forgive me, but I apologize.”

He feels lighter now, not so cold anymore. Oswald watches him, his face softening minutely, and it’s not like the look Jim longs for, but it’s better, so much better than the unreadable tense mask of before.

Oswald parts his lips, but before he can say anything, there’s a wail of police siren and a flash of red and blue coming from the nearest alley. They both glance that way.

“...I suppose you’d like to see what it is about?” Oswald asks politely.

“If you don’t mind,” Jim says, annoyed at the interruption but unable to ignore it anyway.

Oswald nods and they start walking again. The police car is not far, and an officer is coming around it.

“Detective Gordon!” He exclaims. “Just in time. There’s another body from your case. You know, in the trash bin.”

Jim refrains from glancing at Oswald. He doesn’t need to see anything, doesn’t need to know if his expression changed or his eyes showed something. He will deal with it as soon as he gets solid evidence and not a moment sooner.

Resigned, he walks to the spot the officer indicated, stubbornly not releasing the umbrella and this not so subtle hold on Oswald. So maybe he shouldn’t bring him onto the scene, Oswald being a potential suspect and everything. But before the axe really falls Jim wants to hold on to this closeness they have, for as long as they have.

Jim takes the lid off the bin and sees another dead man, tall and lanky, wearing a leather jacket. Oswald’s arm tenses and he gasps a little in surprise. It’s a bit theatrical, Jim thinks with mild annoyance, expecting impenetrable silence and denial.

“Another of the Montanari grunts, I presume?” He inclines his head Oswald’s way and asks without really asking, just waiting for confirmation and the inevitable loss it would bring.

“No,” comes a dismayed reply. “It’s one of mine.”

 

 

 


	9. Acceptance

 

“Yours?”

“Yes. It’s Danny Martin, he’s been missing for some days.”

Jim is surprised by both the revelation and how easily Oswald supplies information about the victim. Fernando Montanari claimed he couldn’t know everyone who worked for him. With Oswald it seems like he does know.

“And you didn’t report it.” Of course. Jim shakes his head and puts the lid back. He tugs Oswald away, to the side of the alley, where they can have some semblance of privacy.

Oswald is still hanging onto Jim’s arm, but his face is not a mask anymore. Jim can almost see the cogs in his mind turn, as he processes the situation, and it’s fascinating, even before their eyes meet again. And their faces are so close now Jim smells the warm scent of Oswald, something like leather and musk, mixing with the cold smell of the rain in a heady cocktail that all but short-circuits Jim’s brain. He has to will himself to ignore it, to steel himself in front of this sensory assault.

“I figure you wouldn’t want to visit the precinct,” Jim says, trying not to get lost in Oswald’s gaze. The mobster gives a small nod. “Then I need your statement now. The victim, your relation to him, and…” Jim takes in a breath and dives deeper. “What were you doing here today.”

Oswald watches him with some interest and nods again. His skin is so smooth and pale, Jim notices before stopping himself once more.

“Like I said, that man is an employee of mine. Danny Martin, I believe he’s twenty-eight, he has a mother out of Gotham. He’s worked for Falcone before joining me. Mostly rough work, like debt collecting.”

“Was he involved with something serious? Or someone?”

“I don’t think so. He never showed any knack for it.”

Jim sighs. This. Important information, provided readily and freely. Oswald really is too kind with him.

“How long has he been missing? Who noticed it?”

“I think three days? His squad leader reported him not showing up.”

“Alright…” Jim is reluctant to let go, to sever the connection once again, but he can’t possibly have Oswald at the scene when the rest of the officers show up. “Thanks.”

Jim holds the umbrella out to Oswald, indicating for him to take it.

“You really should go home though,” Oswald tells him with a furrowed brow, but he untangles himself from Jim’s elbow and takes the umbrella back. Jim misses the small weight of his arm instantly.

“I’ll catch a ride with the patrol car,” Jim says, searching his face. “Will you get back alright?”

“Yes. Don’t concern yourself on my account,” Oswald says, his eyes crinkling. “My car is waiting to pick me up two streets down.”

“One moment. What were you doing here?” Jim doesn’t want to know, but he has to. Unfortunately.

“Visiting Mother. I always walk back from her place, for a bit.”

Mother, being kin, is an unreliable witness to corroborate his alibi. But Jim met the odd woman, and she doesn’t seem to be capable of lying at all. Unlike her son… but really, it doesn’t matter so much as what Oswald was doing today, as at the time of the actual murder. And even that is less important now, because he couldn’t be killing off his own grunts as well, could he?

“I see. You should go now,” Jim says, but his voice betrays him, catching in his throat, as he wants Oswald to _stay_.

Oswald looks at him, a hint of a smile on his face, before reaching out and brushing the tips of his fingers over Jim’s cheek, and it takes all of Jim’s self-control not to melt into the brief touch.

“I accept your apology,” Oswald says and walks off, taking Jim’s heart with him.

And he never once called him by his name.

Or ‘friend’. Even ‘Detective’ was soon forgotten, as if Oswald himself doesn’t know where they stand now.

Jim goes through the motions mechanically after that, talking to another witness, to the officers, and he doesn’t register his shivering before one of the unis points it out and practically drags him to the car. Jim’s teeth chatter all through the ride home and he actually bites his tongue thanking the officer for the lift, which results in them both snickering.

Once home, Jim pulls his wet clothes off, the trousers and socks clinging disgustingly to his legs, and even his undershirt is wet and cold. The hot shower is a blessing, how could he have been afraid of the shower in the morning? It’s the most wonderful thing, probably the best of the entire day… no. The best of the entire day is Oswald. Oswald, looking at him again, and not like Jim was a cockroach in his kitchen, Oswald speaking to him, his tone… friendly? casual? whatever, it wasn’t contemptuous and frozen and Jim couldn’t ask for more. And, Oswald touching him, touching him, oh God. The spot on Jim’s cheek that Oswald touched burns, tingles, completely unforgettable, and it’s not even surprising and embarrassing to Jim how painfully hard he is right now, all the memories of Oswald, his scent, his touch, his everything crashing down on Jim with unrelenting intensity.

And this time he won’t deny himself. He’s past it. And maybe it’s still not alright for him to want Oswald, maybe he shouldn’t give in to it when it’s not meant to be, but it takes just a few strokes for Jim to climax and he enjoys it for as long as it lasts, guilt and unease keeping at bay for several glorious minutes.

If only it wasn’t the only thing that could be between them, huh.

 

After, lounging on his couch with a glass of whiskey, Jim remembers that there were so many other things he was supposed to ask Oswald about the victim, the most crucial of it being where he could be taken from. He has to know, or at least that ‘squad leader’ of his ought to know. But… can Jim just go to him and ask? Will that be alright, with the way they are now?

Oswald accepted his apology. Doesn’t mean that Jim is forgiven. But it probably won’t hurt to at least ask, it’s business after all, and they always did business well, even if it has been more take than give from Jim’s side all this time.

And if Oswald does reject him and won’t talk to him, then maybe it would be less difficult to let go, Jim tries to convince himself.

 

The next morning Jim pops into the medical examiner’s office as soon as he gets to the precinct. Ed is apologetic again, because the victim has nothing on him for identification, like before, but Jim just waves his hand at him.

“It’s alright Ed, I know the name of this one, and where to look for more clues. My CI really came through on this one,” he says, the words rolling off his tongue with something like pride, even. And ‘my CI’ shouldn’t feel so intimate but it does somehow. “Tell me if there are any deviations from the first two cases, eh?”

“Very little of those. Different torture marks, the perp is really getting creative. If you look at the victim’s nails, you can see characteristic dark patterns there that mean needles were inserted under them, can you imagine? But all the old ones are there too, and the murder weapon is still the same,” Ed enthuses over the corpse, pointing the details out for Jim. “And see this? Needle entry points in the elbow area? At first I thought it another means of torture, but now I think he feeds some drug into their systems. But I can find no trace of it, so I could be wrong about this still. I don’t think it’s a knockout drug. Probably either glucose, or, considering the torture…”

“A truth serum?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“So he’s looking for something…” Jim taps his fingers on the table. “Considering he’s even sane. Does he seem sane to you, Ed?”

“Sanity is relative, Detective. Especially in Gotham.”

Jim smirks. “I think this calls for ‘why is a raven like a writing desk’ thing, don’t you?”

A strained smile. “I guess?”

“Get me a list of possible serum ingredients, alright?”

Ed nods, fiddling with his glasses.

Jim taps his fingers some more, looking the body over. The clues he needs are not here, they’re in the brain of the person he wants to see the most. But he can’t rush. He should pop to the club closer to the evening, to appear casual and everything, not pressing at all.

And have an excuse to get wasted in case of rejection, Jim thinks darkly.

One more thing.

“Ed, what about the time of death?”

“The night before yesterday. Around 22-23 o’clock.”

The day Jim knows nothing about Oswald’s movements… yet.

“All right, Ed, thanks. It’s been helpful.”

“Good luck, Detective.”

 

Jim returns to his desk. The reports are there waiting nicely, the witness statement he didn’t jot down but someone else did, the canvass reports. And there’s another mention of the white van… but only one instance. It could be anything. Jim doesn’t look forward to watching hours of traffic footage _again_. Maybe he could somehow coerce Harvey into it? Something about karmic justice or some other such shit, for not wanting to help him in the beginning.

Jim reads the reports thoroughly, but a part of his brain is keeping close watch on time, counting down minutes until it would be alright to go to “Oswald’s”. Time crawls forward, slow as molasses. An hour. Two hours. He goes out for lunch, walking too far before deciding on some Thai, and takes his time returning too. The case is in his thoughts, always, but Jim is focused more on what he might learn in the evening, than what he’d learned from the reports. Harvey is out working his own information network, or so he claimed, and Jim ends up going to the club earlier than he intended.

He drives there taking the long road, both anxious to get there already and fearing the possible outcome. He parks his car and just sits in it for better part of an hour, gathering courage to go inside. This is so unlike him, to be that anxious about meeting with someone. And whom! A mobster, an informant, a snitch. He shouldn’t have that power over Jim, no one should. But Jim doesn’t want to rebel against this, everything inside him wants to roll over and beg for Oswald, and the revelation makes Jim bury his face in his palms with a groan. What is he, a high-schooler with a first crush? This is ridiculous.

Jim enters the club when some people begin to gather there, if only a few couples sharing drinks. He looks around and spots Gabe by the bar, his face still bearing scars and a yellowing bruise, his arm in a sling. The bodyguard calls him over, waving his good hand.

“Detective,” he says, his voice rough and a little bit unclear, his jaw working with an effort. “Heard you helped my boss out the other day. And me too.”

He nods to his injured shoulder. Jim shrugs. “Right place, right time.”

“Right,” Gabe snorts. “The others would’ve left boss and me to die, no qualms. But not you.” He claps Jim unexpectedly on the shoulder, his massive palm heavy and warm. “Kinda see why boss is hung up on you. Anyway, you want a drink, Detective, that’s on me.” And he claps Jim again, almost winding him.

Hung up? On Jim? No, calm down, it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean you can hope - and what about your principles again? You already decided you can’t let that happen. Don’t get so crazily happy over this offhand comment.

“Uh, thanks?” Jim says, bewildered. “About your boss though. Can I see him?”

Gabe nods. “He said you’d be coming. You can just go upstairs.”

Jim inclines his head and turns to the stairs.

“Not in the office,” Gabe says to his back. “He’s in his rooms further up.”

Jim is very glad to be facing away, and thankful for the dim lighting of the club. Flushing to his ears at the prospect of going to _Oswald’s room_ would be very difficult to explain otherwise.

It gets worse with every step. Jim is so primed with his own thoughts, with Gabe’s remark, with the invitation to a private part of Oswald’s life, he couldn’t think straight if his life depended on it.

He stands at the door, unbearably anxious and mildly aroused, still flushing, still breathing shallowly. He probably looks like a total lunatic. Jim takes several deep breaths and smooths his hair nervously.

And then he knocks.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wonder what scent I had in mind, try finding men's perfume Gucci Guilty Absolute. It looks a bit like a whiskey flask. The initial scent is too strong and even overpowering animalistic one, but let it dry down - and there you have it, with subtle musky notes.


	10. And All That Jazz

 

“Come in,” he hears Oswald’s voice.

Jim opens the door and enters the room, probably something like a sitting room or a lounge, definitely not a bedroom. Jim expected something archaic and maybe sophisticated, like some of Oswald’s suits, but instead, the room is minimalistic, sleek and classy. Who would’ve thought.

Oswald is sitting in a chair with some book, but he raises his head when Jim enters, and stands up. He’s not at all casual and dressed to the nines as usual, despite being alone and resting, the only concession a lack of gloves and his suit jacket. The dark green brocade tie somehow highlights his eyes, making them greener and more striking than usual. There should be a limit to that, c’mon.

“Oh, it’s you. I knew you would be coming,” Oswald says. “After all, you still must have a lot of questions.”

Yes, like will you ever call me by my name again? Will your face cease to be so indecipherable in my presence?

“True,” Jim says, his throat dry, the words scratching. “You only gave me a small bit. It’s insufficient for further investigation.”

“Yes,” Oswald nods and sits back, gesturing to the chair opposite of his. “Please, sit.”

Jim lowers himself into the chair stiffly, suddenly all too aware of his limbs and not sure where to put them. Oswald watches him with keen eyes, but Jim can’t make out his mood at all. He clears his throat.

“About the case… can I count on your providing information about the victim?”

“Yes.”

Yes who? Call me, call me _something_ , give me a sign!

“But I will require a return favour from you.”

Jim’s heart sinks. It’s business, strictly business.

Well. They can do business at least.

“Alright,” Jim says and Oswald’s gaze grows hard. “You got it.”

“Glad to know you’re game. Ask your questions, then,” Oswald says, settling deeper in his chair, his fingers linked in front of him.

“First, I need to know places your man went to, probably regularly. We think the perp stakes it out beforehand, because the victims never struggle. He must take them by surprise.”

“I thought along these lines also, and gathered pertinent information yesterday. The most frequented place is a dive bar “Calico”, at Lacker and Thatch, he went there almost every night.” Oswald shakes his head slightly. “That’s how you know he didn’t have any particular potential, really.”

“I see,” Jim doesn’t write it down, refusing to watch anything but Oswald, taking in his every move. “What about his friends?”

“He had a few. Louis Hardt, Michael Cole, Vittorio Marano. I pulled them from active duty for now.”

Jim nods. Trust Oswald to be at least one step ahead. “What about the Montanari men? Do they go there?”

“Am I still under suspicion for killing them? You think I would kill my own to throw the police off my trail?” Oswald asks with a distinct edge of coldness.

Jim gulps, but honesty is unfortunately his best bet with him.

“Maybe not the police,” he says slowly. “But your competition… maybe.”

Oswald lets out a short laugh. “Well! I suppose I should take it as a compliment from you.” He smiles, and the smile is almost strained through the cracks of his polite and impassive mask. It’s not the look Jim wants to see on his face, longing for his real smile instead, the kind that was lighting Oswald’s eyes up from inside and made him so beautiful.

“So, what about them?”

“They go there, yes. It’s a popular bar with grunts, cheap liquor and all those simple pleasures simple men partake in. How frequently they visit, though, I have no idea. You can ask them yourself.”

“Alright,” Jim nods. “Do you know if your man was involved in some feud? Had any personal enemies?”

Oswald stands up abruptly and walks to the window, his steps fast, twitchy. “Why do you keep referring to him as ‘my man’? He was my employee, my thug, if you want, not my man. Trust me, there is a difference,” Oswald says with irritation, locking his palms behind his back. “And as far as I know, he was so unremarkable as to not have any enemies of his own. All of his enemies were my enemies in the first place.” He turns back to face Jim, gesticulating, his face angry. “This is an attack on me, cheap and cowardly. This enemy doesn’t have the guts to go after me, so he goes after mine!”

Anger suits him well, Jim thinks all of a sudden. Oswald’s eyes are sparkling, his face animated with emotion, his broad gestures projecting confidence and power. It shouldn’t be a turn-on, oh no, not in a situation like this. Jim shifts in his chair slightly, trying to find a position that would mask his reactions. Sitting becomes decidedly uncomfortable.

“I will get him,” Jim says, resolute, in an attempt to distract himself. “You can count on me.”

“Oh, can I?” Oswald asks dryly, and then his proud posture slumps, his shoulders sagging. “Can I?”

And Jim’s ears could be playing tricks on him, but he detects vulnerability and softness in Oswald’s voice, and it does the opposite on the parts of his anatomy that really should have no say in the moment. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Always,” he says, husky. He has to keep talking. Keep his mind off this. “I know I haven’t shown you otherwise. It’ll change from now on.”

But he still has to ask the question, the unpleasant one. Perhaps that will do away with it, huh?

“There’s one more thing I have to know. I do believe you didn’t kill your… your underling. But I have to know what you were doing on Friday, around ten o’clock in the evening.”

Oswald juts his chin forward and takes a step towards Jim, straightening up. “I was out since midday checking another place for my new club. ‘Fornetto’. You can confirm with the current owner.”

“And after?”

“I was here. We had a change of menu to smooth out.”

And that’s not really corroborative, but… Jim doesn’t think that Oswald is lying to him right now anyway. He watches him, not trying to read or anything, just taking in the sight of Oswald in front of him, and he wants to reach out and touch him, hold him, but Oswald’s expressions are once again forbidding, closed.

“Alright,” Jim says in the end. “I suppose that’s all for now. Thank you.” Jim is reluctant to rise from the chair and leave though, his situation notwithstanding, and he fishes for whatever pretext that will let him stay in Oswald’s presence longer.

Oswald tilts his head to the side, looking Jim over. It’s as if he’s contemplating something, and there’s something both defiant and desperate in his face, and then he makes up his mind.

“About that favour,” Oswald says, sounding flat. “I would like to collect it now.”

Apprehension fills Jim, but a promise is a promise. And if Oswald asks for something outrageously criminal, Jim will try his best to dissuade him… or find a way to do it without breaking the law, but he won’t let Oswald down again.

“Sure,” Jim replies, trying not to show his unease. “What’s it gonna be?”

“Don’t worry. It’s a personal favour, not professional,” Oswald says, his voice taut, almost ringing. “It would, however, involve a breach of your boundaries.”

Jim swallows hard, momentarily aware of his still very present erection, of Oswald standing so close to him now he can almost smell that scent from his skin that makes his brain shut down, and of all the possible implications.

“Okay,” Jim nods, jerkily, straightening his back and keeping his hands in his lap. “What do you want me to do?”

Oswald looks incredulous, as if he asked for it without hoping for a positive response at all. A pause, and then...

“I need you to close your eyes and keep very still.”

Jim complies, shivers running down his spine. There’s the quiet shuffle of Oswald’s steps, coming closer, the rustling of his layered clothes, that scent...

And then Jim feels a warmth close to his face, and lips, it could only be lips that soft, are pressed to his cheek, close to the corner of his mouth, but not close enough. Not close enough. Jim stills, unbearably tense, his fingers digging into his knees, his whole being concentrated on the spot where Oswald kisses him, and it lasts forever and not long enough. Jim makes a sound when it ends, and wants to open his eyes, to _see_ Oswald so close, but Oswald places his warm hand over Jim’s eyelids.

“Shh, keep still,” he says softly. “Count to ten.”

Jim begins counting out loud, voice breaking. At ‘three’ Oswald’s palm is gone from his face. At ‘five’ he hears him straighten up. At ‘seven’ Oswald’s steps are moving away, and at ‘nine’ Jim hears a door closing. ‘Ten’ is the sound of the lock clicking and Jim opens his eyes. Oswald is gone, disappeared to another room where Jim can’t follow. Jim sits, dumbfounded, as if struck by lightning, unable to move.

 

He doesn’t register how much time has passed. At one moment he somehow makes it to the bathroom downstairs and takes care of his situation, and it does so little to satisfy him, feels so perfunctory, and Jim thinks that only one thing, one person could truly sate him. At the very least it makes the raging erection go away, and Jim finds himself down at the bar, drinking whiskey on the rocks, his mind empty and abuzz.

There are more people in the club now, music playing, something delicate and romantic without being sappy, piano and saxophones. Jim raises his head feeling someone’s stare, and sees Oswald, who’s come down to play his part of a gracious club owner, here to greet and welcome his guests, looking at him intently across the floor.

Jim flushes all over, and he should probably avert his eyes, should probably go home already, but it’s like he’s rooted to the damn place, caught like a deer in the headlights. He longs to come up to Oswald and kiss him, kiss him breathless, take him back upstairs and…

Oswald looks away.

Jim downs his glass and gestures for the refill.

What was going on in Oswald’s head when he decided to do _that?_ If he wanted to kiss Jim, he should’ve just kissed him. But no, he took this not-really-a-kiss, too close to Jim’s lips to be completely innocent, yet far enough to still be considered chaste, even impersonal, if you wanted. Messing with Jim again. Or messing with himself, who knows. Maybe he thought Jim would be outraged, would probably get violent at worst, or be disgusted. Maybe Oswald didn’t realize that Jim would open up for him and welcome it… after all, Jim didn’t show that either.

Maybe Oswald didn’t want that at all, and only wanted to exert control over Jim, show him that he too could tease him with body contact and leave him wanting. Maybe it’s revenge.

His glass is empty again. Bartender refills it at his nod. Jim drinks it quickly, the alcohol stinging his mouth, and the refills keep coming.

At some point Gabe is by his side, clapping him on his shoulder again, laughing with him at some joke neither would’ve found funny sober, and his company is pleasant somehow, and a link to Oswald, always to Oswald, and it feels good even by proxy, and Jim keeps drinking trying to forget that Oswald doesn’t want him enough to actually kiss him on his lips.

His mood gets darker then, violent urges roiling beneath the surface, the noises and people pushing past him getting on his nerves, and he’d love to work it out by exchanging some blows, but it’s Oswald’s place and he won’t inconvenience him by getting rowdy here. Somehow, even when Jim’s that smashed, his self-control is centered on Oswald, and still keeping him in check, surprise-surprise.

There’s no more whiskey for him, someone’s quiet voice pacifying him when he protests, and there’s darkness then, and there’s rain.

It’s cold, and Jim is swaying, attacked by the raindrops and the wind. There’s something vicious under his feet, sucking him under with every step, and it’s so difficult, so terrible to walk. And there’s the voice, calling him, pulling him, and Jim tries so hard to _get there,_ as always, and he drowns, splashing around in the rain and the darkness. But he’s somehow not alone here anymore?

There’s something, someone? in the dark with him, just there. Close enough to feel his presence, but not enough to touch, yet Jim is reassured by it enough to start swimming up through the void towards the voice, but his lungs give out, and he reaches again in vain as he sinks. He comes to his senses when he feels hands holding his outstretched palm, not dream hands, but real, thin and warm, and so grounding.

“Jim?” Oswald calls softly.

Oh God, he called his name. He holds Jim’s hand. He’s here, with Jim, here, here! No, this is probably another dream, Jim thinks through the haze. Oswald couldn’t be here, why would he? It’s another dream messing with his head. But at least there’s something _nice_ about this dream.

Jim pulls Oswald’s hands, bringing him closer, and hugs him tight, burying his face in his bony shoulder, Oswald’s body pressing so perfectly against his, his warm scent enveloping them, chasing away the coldness. And if it’s a dream, then maybe dream Oswald would want to kiss him? Would want him?

Jim’s mouth travels slowly up from Oswald’s shoulder, nuzzling against his neck and his cheek, and he’s almost at his lips, the quivering of Oswald’s body so sweet against Jim’s, so enticing…

“Jim, stop,” he suddenly hears Oswald’s voice, breathless and hitching, but still impossible to disobey.

“Don’t wanna,” Jim mumbles against Oswald’s cheek, a whine creeping into his words. Why is dream Oswald so strict with him? “Want you.”

Oswald inhales sharply and stills, and sighs.

“Jim, you’re not sober,” he says sadly, detaching himself slowly from Jim’s arms. “You’re not fully conscious of your wants and your words.”

“But…”

“There can be no ‘buts’ about it, Jim,” Oswald says, quietly, fully out of Jim’s hold save but his hand. “We can only deal with this sober or not at all.”

“Don’t you want me?” Jim asks, peering at him through the dimness.

“Jim…” Oswald sighs, and cups his cheek with his free hand. “Let’s save it for when you’re in full control of yourself, alright?”

“You’re mean for a dream,” Jim says, leaning into his touch.

“Perhaps,” Oswald says, his hand gently sliding away. “Sleep some more.”

That makes sense. Jim nods, and turns on his side, closing his eyes. His sleep is dreamless after.

 

 

 


	11. Hold Me Tight or Don't

 

Morning comes with a pulsing headache and a parched mouth. Jim tries to open his eyes, but it’s way too bright, so he shuts them tight and pulls the blanket higher. His eyeballs feel like lead in his head.

And something feels wrong, Jim realizes dimly. The blanket is thicker than his usual one. The pillow under his head is way too comfortable as well. And there’s a familiar scent coming from it, a scent that couldn’t possibly be present in Jim’s bed.

He tries opening his eyes once more, and ends up squinting at his surroundings. The room is unfamiliar and familiar at once, he’s seen decor like that before. It’s empty, and Jim is all alone in a big bed, despite another person’s smell. He’s still wearing his clothes too, except jacket and shoes.

Jim leans back, exhausted. The throbbing in his head gets worse. He can barely remember the previous day, there was, what, a club? enormous amounts of good whiskey, too. And there’s also a glimpse of Oswald in his memory, and a taste of his skin.

That last one can’t be possible, Jim thinks. His dreams have never been that vivid, but there’s a first time for everything, huh.

The hangover is brutal though, his headache intensifying with every minute he spends thinking. He must have drunk way more than usual, way more than any other time. He needs water, and maybe a pill, but he can’t even begin thinking about getting up. The most Jim is able to do is turn on his side, and he sees a crystal jug and a glass on the nightstand. Water. Crawling to it across the bed is an ordeal in and of itself, and Jim gets through it on sheer stubbornness. He can’t possibly pour himself a glass in his state, so he just grabs the jug and gulps the water directly from it, spilling it on himself, drinking more than half of it in one go. The throbbing in his head becomes slightly lighter after that.

Jim drifts off again, to be awakened by quiet but irritated voice coming from another room. At first it’s just sound, something unintelligible, but then it comes closer, and Jim can make out the words if he keeps his head propped up.

“...I already told you, he was in no state to get home in one piece, what was I supposed to do, throw him out regardless? I’m not a savage, Detective.”

Oswald.

“Well, do something about it. He’s still sleeping it off.” A pause. “Detective, if I wanted to learn your precious police secrets, I wouldn’t compromise James for them, when there are infinitely more willing sources available right in your precinct, which I am sure you’re aware of.”

Jim hears steps in the other room, somehow booming over the voice. The steps irritate his aching head. The voice doesn’t, even if it sounds harsher than Jim ever heard it.

“Yes, you can come. But I don’t see what help you could possibly provide. Have you actually seen him lately? For Heaven’s sake, he’s wasting away trying to do this job, and you’re a poor friend and partner if you haven’t noticed that.” Another pause. “Fine. I’ll tell him. Good day, Detective.”

There’s a period of silence, and then the door cracks open, Oswald looking in. He notices that Jim’s awake and makes it to the bed as quietly as possible.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest, Jim,” he says, keeping his voice deliberately gentle. He shouldn’t bother, its cadences ultimately soothing to Jim despite his state, and, above all, he’s calling Jim’s name again, and isn’t that just the best sound after all? “How are you feeling?”

“Been better,” Jim manages to mumble, taking in Oswald leaning over him. “Where am I?”

“My room,” Oswald smiles a little. “Forgive my presumptions, but I didn’t think you fancied sleeping in the street.”

“No,” Jim says, trying to shake his head, and that’s a definite mistake. The pain shoots through his temples, his face contorting in a grimace.

“Shh, don’t strain yourself,” Oswald says, placing a cool hand on Jim’s forehead and making him lay back on the pillow. Before it slides away again, Jim catches it with speed surprising in his state, and keeps it in place, covered by his own.

“Stay,” he says, pleading. “Stay…”

Oswald blinks, surprised. “Of course, Jim,” he says then, settling on the edge of the bed.

Jim wants to ask so many questions. Like, is he really forgiven? Is it the norm for drunken guests to spend the night in the club owner’s personal rooms? Is Oswald treating him this gently just because he pities his sorry state? He can’t possibly form that many words now, and too weak to deal with answers, not being able to tell truth from lies. But he has to know, anyway, and he searches Oswald’s face for a sign, any sign, through his discomfort and aches.

“Why?” Jim asks, making an effort to keep his eyes on Oswald, who tilts his head in confusion.

“We’re friends, aren’t we, Jim?” He says after a while, his eyes smiling sadly, and Jim wants to erase that sadness from him forever, somehow, but is he even the right person for that? After all, Oswald doesn’t want him. Even dream Oswald doesn’t want him, he remembers suddenly, and oh, that was a nice dream until he was rejected, and now real Oswald is looking at him in concern and that too could be nice if only there was a chance for them.

“Yes…” Jim says slowly, his hand releasing Oswald’s. “We are.” He looks at the ceiling, his eyes dry and stinging.

Oswald breaks their touch and sits straighter, his face closed off once again.

“You must be feeling worse than I assumed. Do you want a painkiller, Jim?”

No, I want you to kiss it better and spend this day with me, just us here, no police business, no mob business, no Gotham.

“You were talking to someone,” Jim says instead.

“Yes. Your partner Bullock was searching for you. I didn’t want to tell you until you were feeling better.”

“What did he want?”

“Jim, I think you should rest.”

“No. Tell me.”

“Fine,” Oswald sighs. “There was another body found. Now, I suppose, you shall storm to the scene, regardless of your less than adequate condition?”

“No,” Jim says, closing his eyes. “But I do want that painkiller.”

The bed shifts as Oswald stands up, and Jim hears his steps moving away, to another room, and then coming back.

“Oswald,” he says, unmoving. “Did we talk yesterday?”

“A little. You were having a bad dream.” The bed creaks again as Oswald sits on its edge, and then he speaks, still so softly. “What was it about?”

Jim never told anyone. Not Barbara, not Lee, not the psychologist in charge of the regular police psych evaluations. The dream was a part of him no one ever knew, the one he never wanted to show, a vulnerability, a weakness too close to his core.

“Rain,” he says slowly. “I drown in the rain.”

“That must be rather awful,” Oswald sounds sympathetic. “You were heaving pretty bad, struggling for breath. I must admit I was scared you were having an attack of some sort.”

Jim opens his eyes and tries to sit up. “Is that why I remember hugging you?”

Oswald blushes, and avoids looking at him. “I didn’t mean to invade your boundaries without permission, Jim.”

The words trigger a memory, finally, and it cascades over Jim mercilessly and without consideration for his state. The talk with Oswald about another victim, him calling in a favour, a near-kiss, Jim’s helpless arousal and drinking spree, culminating in a ringing ‘sober or not at all’ in his head. And did Oswald really?.. Did he really consider it, did Jim really have a chance at… at least, at voicing it? If he has the guts to.

“Hungover is not exactly sober, huh…” Jim mutters under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Jim, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“It’s nothing,” Jim says clearer and reaches for the pill in Oswald’s palm. He swallows it and drinks from the jug again, not bothering with the glass, as Oswald watches him with disapproval and fascination both.

“Did Harvey tell you any particulars?” Jim asks, sitting straighter.

“No. He’s under the impression I would somehow use the information to my advantage.” He smiles, sly. “I wonder why.”

“Do you, huh?” Jim attempts a grin. “Well, he’s suspecting you’re involved.”

“I am. Just not in the way he thinks,” Oswald frowns. “I’d like to avoid the confrontation with him, though. Always leaves a bad taste.”

Oswald said something about allowing Harvey to come, Jim recalls, and he suddenly doesn’t want him to. At least not here, to Oswald’s room, their private little bubble, not to see Jim in Oswald’s bed. Jim cringes at the thought what teasing it would bring, and he doesn’t want this moment tarnished by anything, anything at all.

“Can you help me get up?”

“Jim, the painkiller hasn’t even kicked in yet, certainly. Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Harvey’s going to come for sure. I don’t want him to see me here like this.”

Oswald’s face freezes, a flash of resentment in his eyes, taking it the wrong way, and Jim reaches out and takes his hand, stopping the train of thought before it turns uglier.

“I don’t mean that I’m ashamed to be seen here. And I can take his verbal jabbing, but I’d like to at least spare you this.” Oswald doesn’t react, and Jim continues. “You’ve troubled yourself with me enough.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Jim,” Oswald replies quietly and stands up, not taking away his hand. “Let’s get you up then.”

It takes an effort to swing his legs off the bed, and even more of it to think about standing up, his head still aching. But Oswald looks at him encouragingly, there, not breaking their touch, and Jim finds his shoes and shoves his feet in and stands up. The room swirls around him and he ends up tilting forward, crashing into Oswald with his whole body, and steadying himself by grabbing onto Oswald’s waist is a move so natural it doesn’t require any thought. Oswald’s face is so close to his, he’s looking up at Jim, startled, lips parting, and God, Jim has so little self-control left.

“I’m sorry,” he says, swallowing hard. “You were talking about boundaries and here I am.”

“It’s… alright, Jim,” Oswald’s tongue wets his lips quickly, as Jim watches, entranced. “I’ve been through hangovers myself.”

Oswald, hungover? Now that’s a funny thought, and weird too, him being so prim and proper. Jim wonders how Oswald looked in his moment of weakness, and would it have been similar to…

He tightens his grip on Oswald’s waist and hears his breath hitch, and Jim wants to tell him everything he makes him feel, spill his confessions, his desires, but he still hasn’t made peace with his principles being in conflict with his yearning, and Oswald deserves clarity, and a sober talk. Jim’s hands feel like lead, like they’re glued in place, so perfect on that slim body, but Jim takes them off even though it’s like tearing himself apart. He reaches for Oswald’s arm instead.

“I think I’m good to try walking,” he says.

Oswald nods shakily and leads Jim towards the door, their steps slow and careful and Jim feels like they might even make it to the other room without any incidents and then he trips on his shoelace, tumbling to the floor. Oswald can’t possibly hold him and ends up stumbling himself, but manages to keep from falling. Jim blinks up at him in confusion sitting on the floor, suddenly disoriented and a bit nauseous, and he must have a silly look on him because Oswald tries his best to contain his amusement, and yet his eyes are sparkling with mirth.

“Go on, laugh at the fallen,” Jim fakes an offended tone, and that does it, and Oswald can’t hold back a laugh as he reaches for Jim again.

“Hold on,” Jim says. “I’d better tie those laces while I’m down.”

He tries his best, but his motor skills are not up to snuff yet, and so he fumbles for a good couple of minutes before Oswald sighs and lowers himself to Jim’s level to help him make sense of it. Jim watches his nimble fingers undo the messy tangle and tie it up in a neat knot before continuing on to the other shoe.

“You’re way too kind with me, you know?” Jim says, a lump in his throat. “Taking care of me this way. I’m sure you have places to be.”

“But only one of you, Jim,” Oswald lifts his head, finished with the laces. “And I want to be a good friend to you, like you have been.”

“I haven’t,” Jim objects, painfully honest when Oswald looks at him with a hint of that admiration he craves. “I haven’t been a friend at all.”

“Nonsense,” Oswald smiles, standing up. “You’ve saved me when you didn’t have to. You apologized for mistreating me. Isn’t that what friends do?” He holds his hands out for Jim. “Now, try to stand up.”

Jim feels warm all over from Oswald’s words, and he manages to get up on his feet, still wobbling slightly. They resume walking. The painkiller finally kicks in, the aches in Jim’s body dulling, fading away, and he straightens up a little by the time they’re at the lounge. It’s still too personal for Jim’s taste, and he doesn’t know, doesn’t want to think about who else visited these rooms, but he wants to keep it between himself and Oswald, and no one else, and he wants to go to the office instead.

The walk downstairs is a different form of torture, one of Jim’s hands on the railing, the other draped over Oswald’s shoulders, because Oswald is nervous on the stairs himself, and they are pressed side by side in the best and the worst possible way as they help each other get down. It is actually a relief when they finally enter the office and separate, Jim settling on the sofa, his skin burning, because if it lasted for another half-minute Jim would’ve thrown caution to the wind entirely and pinned Oswald to the nearest surface and that could’ve only ended in disaster, surely.

“Water, Jim?” Oswald offers, holding up a glass, his cheeks also spectacularly flushed.

“Yes, please,” he agrees, if only to have a distraction, and drinks gratefully.

“Anything to eat?”

“I don’t think I can hold it down at the moment,” Jim says, his stomach uneasy. He looks around the office, and it’s all the same as always, and how many times has he been here?

“Oswald,” he calls, softly. “Were those attempts on your life Montanari’s doing?”

“Why do you think so, Jim?” Oswald says, settling in his chair.

“Seems to coincide with those murders,” Jim says, finishing his water and putting the glass on the coffee table by the sofa. “That’s why Harvey thinks you’re involved, that it’s a turf war between you two.”

“Well, that’s an interesting train of thought.”

“Is it true?”

“What would you do if it was, Jim?” Oswald fiddles with his cuff, his fingers catching Jim’s attention again. “Arrest them? It doesn’t work this way, not in Gotham, and not the way I want it to be, either. It would put a shadow over you, too close a connection to me.”

“Didn’t you want it? To have us connected this way in the public eye?” Jim is surprised, to say the least.

“Oh, Jim,” Oswald shakes his head, smiling quietly. “I must admit to having these thoughts, but I would never willingly taint you this way. I know how important it is for you to believe wholeheartedly in your righteousness, to not have a shade of doubt in it,” Oswald says softly, looking at Jim with fondness that washes over him like a caress. “To not only be a good man, but be certain you are. It’s what, among other things, makes me--” He cuts himself off, and looks away.

“Makes you… what?” Jim asks, arrested. Is Oswald saying what he thinks he’s saying?

“Jim…”

“No,” he rushes to halt him, interrupting. “You don’t have to finish. Besides, I want to say it first.”

Oswald smiles at him cheekily. “Are you trying to one-up me, Jim? In this?”

“You seem to know me pretty well. What do you think?” Jim raises his eyebrows.

“I think that were you in your usual state we’d be having a rather different conversation.”

“Oswald…” Jim swallows and looks straight at him, trying to pour all of his feelings and passion into his gaze, tell Oswald everything with his eyes. “Were I in my ‘usual state’, we wouldn’t be doing much conversing at all.”

Oswald flicks his tongue between his lips again before responding.

“Something to look forward to, then.”

Jim is too fixated on this sight before him, on implications behind their words, too caught in the unexpected turn of their talk, that he only remembers that Oswald never really answered his question about the attempts when Gabe knocks on the door and tells them that Harvey has arrived. And then Harvey, hot on his heels, enters the room, takes in Jim’s rumpled appearance and tsks loudly, disapprovingly, before turning to Oswald.

“For once, you weren’t messing with us, huh?” He says with disbelief and makes it to Jim. “How are you, pal?”

“Better than when I woke up, Harvey,” Jim tries to smile, but Harvey is too big and too loud and his timing isn’t perfect and… oh well. “So, there’s a new body?”

“Yeah. Hope your stomach can handle it,” he says, producing a photo out of his pocket. “This one is gruesome.”

Jim takes the photo and he is shocked to see the person in it. Sure, there’s a terrified expression on the victim’s face, and his face is littered with cuts and a chunk of his nose is missing, but Jim can still recognize him. It’s Vinni, the guy from the gym.

 

 

 


	12. Out in the Open

 

“I know him,” Jim says, incredulous, looking up at Harvey. “He’s from that Montanari’s gym place.”

“What?”

“He’s one of the Montanari’s thugs, he was friends with the first two victims.”

“Huh,” Harvey says and eyes Oswald suspiciously, whose face sets into a defiant mask. “Makes you think.”

“Lay off, Harvey. I saw him yesterday, he was here the whole time,” Jim interjects before sparks start flying.

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t order it,” Harvey says, unconvinced, throwing Oswald another dirty look.

“I am still in the room, Detective,” Oswald says tersely, standing up from behind the desk and coming around it. “And while this is certainly an interesting flight of fancy, it is counterproductive to both your investigation and improvement of your partner’s state.”

Harvey scoffs, but doesn’t press on. He takes out his flask instead. “Hair of the dog, Jim?”

Jim shakes his head. “I’ll be good in a bit. What was the time of death? Was there anything to clue us in?”

“No, not a thing. This bloke got offed at around 22 yesterday, or so Nygma says,” he takes a swig. “Everything else is the same, except for that face job.”

“Were there traces of serum?” There hasn’t been a big gap between the murders this time, so maybe...

“He didn’t mention it,” Harvey says, raising his eyebrows pointedly in Oswald’s direction.

Jim shrugs. “I told you it’s okay, Harvey.”

“Can I see the photo, Jim?” Oswald says, coming closer. Jim nods and passes it to him, careful not to let their fingers touch, to not betray himself in front of witnesses.

Oswald looks at the victim, contemplative. He frowns and licks his lip, Jim observing him raptly despite himself. He can’t help it if the man is such a distraction, and his eyes are so intense and, oh, Jim wishes that he was licking Oswald’s lip instead, or better yet...

“Anything you want to share, Penguin?” Harvey asks, his eyes darting between Oswald and Jim.

“I might. In a minute,” Oswald says and walks out of the room, Jim watching him every step of the way. Despite the limp Oswald always had a sort of elegance to his movements, an energy so compelling you couldn’t look away. Jim doesn’t even try anymore.

There’s a slight pause and then Harvey frowns at Jim. “You want to tell me what this is about, Jimbo?”

“What do you mean?” Jim raises his head to look at his partner who seems displeased all of a sudden.

“You spend the night at Penguin’s bar and in the morning you look at him like he’s hung the moon,” Harvey takes another swig from his flask. “You got some? He’s not much of a looker, but hey, being drunk’s an excuse.”

Jim cringes so hard his headache comes back. This was exactly what he didn’t want to hear, to have Oswald, brilliant, volatile, gentle Oswald reduced to a piece of ass, something to be used and cast away; to have his feelings, while not entirely pure but not limited to only ‘getting some’, summed up in this crude way.

“Harvey…” He says, a dangerous rumble in his voice. “Watch it.”

“Touchy much? Fine. Whatever floats your boat, eh?” Harvey gulps down his flask and puts it away. “You ready to get outta here?”

And Jim should’ve seen this coming. No one would think he’d actually prefer to spend the rest of the day here, in the company of a mobster. But going to the precinct and working the cases, or worse, returning to his empty apartment, is such an unappealing alternative it didn’t even cross his mind.

“Not until he gets back with that info,” is what he says, still irritated, still angry. He doesn’t want to tell Harvey that, doesn’t want Harvey here at all, a much too obvious reminder of the obstacles between himself and Oswald.

“Yeah. I guess he’s still good for something. But I hear that Fernando Montanari plans to retaliate.”

“What?” Jim tenses up involuntarily, his heartbeat picking up.

“Just word on the street. He’s not happy losing his grunts left and right.”

“Anything definite?”

“What, you think he’d share it with me over drinks? Just rumours, Jim,” Harvey shakes his head.

Oswald returns to the room and walks over to Jim and Harvey, his face strange, as if he’s thinking of several things at once very fast. Jim looks up at him questioningly, and tries to relax a little, or at least stop his nails digging into his palms so hard. He can still warn him.

“It might be interesting to you that all of the victims so far were remnants of the Falcone’s time. None of them are new,” Oswald says flatly.

“How can you be sure?” Jim asks.

“I remember seeing this one during my employ with Fish Mooney.” Oswald waves the photo before handing it back to Jim. “I inquired with other men that I have had in my service since that time.”

“So this, whatever this is, is not tied to your ongoing turf war, you want to say?” Harvey frowns at him.

“Might be a coincidence, Detective. Wouldn’t you prefer it that way?” Oswald asks, poison dripping from his words.

“Oswald…” Jim tries to stop him, but Harvey cuts in, stepping closer.

“You know, Penguin, you think you’re so smart. But I’d watch my back if I were you.” Harvey towers over the mobster, scowling at him. “Being smart doesn’t make you bulletproof.”

“It ups my chances, Detective, and I’m afraid yours are looking rather grim. Pity.” Oswald smiles, showing too many teeth to be sincere. Harvey’s shoulders tense up, and Jim springs to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain in his temple, to get between them.

“Harvey, I think it’s time for us to go,” he says, looking straight at his partner. “I have to get on top of the situation as soon as possible.”

“Alright,” Harvey says, still glowering, but he turns for the door. “Let’s go.”

Jim lingers as he stands next to Oswald, reluctant to leave, to burst this bubble further. It’s been much better than he could’ve hoped for only yesterday. Oswald was willing to give him a chance, they were able to talk and they still had so much to say to each other. But they just never have enough time.

“Thank you,” he says, looking into his eyes. “For helping us out.”

“You’re welcome, Jim,” Oswald smiles gently, his face pinkish, and it’s such a different smile than the one he gave Harvey moments ago Jim’s heart skips a beat. “Always.”

“Jim, come on, we don’t have all day,” Harvey calls him, irritated, from the door.

“I’m coming, Harv, just a moment,” Jim waves him on, his throat dry all of a sudden.

“I’ll wait in the car,” Harvey rolls his eyes. “So wrap up your pleasantries and get going.”

“Sure,” Jim says as the door closes behind him. “Oswald, be careful. Harvey says that don Montanari is planning some attack on you.”

“I will, Jim. Thank you,” Oswald nods, his cheeks getting redder. Jim gives him another lingering look, just one last time, and turns for the door as well. The sooner he gets back the less reasons he gives Harvey for teasing him.

“Ah!” Oswald exclaims when Jim reaches for the handle. “Jim, wait, your jacket!”

Jim halts and turns to see Oswald hobble to the corner of the office, to a coat rack tucked there, and return back to Jim with his jacket. He holds it out to him, slightly flushed, Jim reaches to take it, their hands meeting over the fabric, and they still, looking at each other.

“You’re leaving too early, Jim,” Oswald says abruptly, concern sneaking into his voice. “You should rest more, have a proper breakfast, not some junk food you’re bound to get.”

“I promise I’ll get something healthy,” Jim smiles. Oswald fretting over his well-being is so… endearing. It feels good to have someone worry about you, to have someone care what happens to you, and it’s something that reminds Jim of things he has been missing out on in his recent solitude. And he never expected to get them here, from this person, but it feels so fitting at the same time.

“I… have to go,” Jim says, reluctant to move from his spot. The distance between them is so small, the air thick with unsaid words, unexpressed feelings, and Oswald’s eyes are magnetic, pulling him in with the inevitability of a black hole. Before Jim realizes what he’s doing, he leans in and brushes his lips over Oswald’s, and it’s brief and soft, like the way his mom kissed his dad when he was leaving for work, a ‘goodbye’, a ‘good luck’, and ‘I love you’ rolled into one small touch. He’s astonished by his own audacity, but he smirks a little at Oswald’s stunned expression, and turns to leave, satisfied by this tiny victory.

“For God’s sake, Jim, if you do it at all, do it properly,” Oswald blurts out in frustration, catching his arm, and then his hand is on Jim’s nape, guiding, his lips meeting Jim’s and matching their passion as they collide together, both breathless at once, both clinging to each other, inexplicably electrified.

“Back at ya,” Jim murmurs, pressing his lips to the same spot Oswald kissed him on yesterday, teasing, and then moving back to his mouth, his hands buried in Oswald’s hair, his lips smiling, and if there ever was anything perfect in his life, it’s this.

“I wish I could stay,” Jim says quietly when they finally part, but are unable to let go, and pressing their foreheads together, their eyes closed. “Just with you, Oswald…”

“Jim…” He strokes his cheek, so softly, making him shiver. “You know you’ll regret shirking your duty. So go do it,” and Oswald releases him, poking his chest.

Jim opens his eyes, taking in Oswald, smiling up at him, deliciously flushed and tousled.

“Careful, Oswald. I might think you don’t want me around,” he says, grinning, and pecks his cheek before leaving the room.

Jim hums a tune, coming down the stairs and he grins at Gabe, waving goodbye, in extremely good spirits, his headache never bothering him at all. He tries to school his features into something more resembling his usual expression before he joins Harvey, but a smile just keeps cropping up, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“See, Jim, that’s the face of the cat who ate the canary,” Harvey remarks when Jim sits beside him in the car.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Harv,” Jim says, fastening his seatbelt. “Come on, let’s get to the precinct.”

 

Once at the station, Jim hits the showers and changes his clothes, emerging if not feeling fresher, at least looking so; his headache almost completely gone, but not the satisfied smile. He pops to the ME’s office to check up on the victim, but Ed is not there, and so Jim is forced to return to his desk and read reports. The dry facts are so similar to the previous murders that Jim fights the sense of deja vu all the while.

Again, found in the trash bin in the Narrows, this time at the corner of Birch and 3rd, by a resident of the area. He never saw the victim and had no connection to him. There weren’t any suspicious people lurking about, either before the discovery of the body or after, but there was still that white van mentioned. It is now certain that the killer must use it to transport the bodies, but it doesn’t seem to be connected to any shipping company. And none of the witnesses who claim to have seen the van remember the plates even partially, and that means more traffic footage to watch.

Jim dumps it all on Harvey, making him choose and supervise a team of unlucky newbies to be saddled with the task. He doesn’t expect results at all, that thought from several days ago finally manifesting in his mind clearly - all of the scenes so far had a distinct lack of traffic cameras, and few security cameras were carefully avoided. The killer could be a traffic department employee, maybe a former one, but that doesn’t really narrow it down, and, anyway, even an ordinary person could avoid the cameras with enough attention paid. Jim still requests a list of traffic department employees with access to the cameras location, but he has to wait, and he goes out to a cafe for lunch, and orders _salad,_ and guacamole toasts with egg, instead of his usual choice of something quick and greasy, like a burger with fries. He smiles inwardly, thinking Oswald would approve of this choice.

The thought of Oswald brightens Jim’s mood instantly, and he feels lighter and more energetic than ever, elated even. His lips tingle at the memory of their kiss, of Oswald’s warmth and eagerness, and the smile just keeps surfacing despite Jim’s efforts to control his face. He hasn’t felt that great in ages.

He doesn’t want to return to the grimness of the precinct, but Oswald is right about him, he would regret doing nothing concerning the investigation, especially now, when he’s certain that Oswald isn’t involved in the murders. Some tiny doubt rears its head, saying that Jim is too trusting, that the fact that Oswald seems to share his feelings doesn’t necessarily mean he wouldn’t exploit this blind spot, but Jim shuts it down. He knows, in his heart of hearts, that Oswald wouldn’t betray him like that.

And so Jim goes back and catches Ed, finally, but there’s nothing new he can tell him. At the least, he gets the list of possible serum ingredients, finally ready and graded according to probability and ease of procurement. Then Alvarez brings in some suspect from his case, a burly biker type, and the man gets rowdy, Jim springing to action at once, helping Alvarez subdue him. They wrestle with the biker who tries to grab the gun, shouting like a madman, until Jim finally manages to drop him with a dirty kick to his knee.

“Thanks, Gordon,” Alvarez says, slapping cuffs on the howling biker and dragging him to the interrogation room. Jim nods and wipes his forehead, his ears still ringing from a nearly avoided blow, but he returns to his desk, satisfied, and wants to check his phone only to realize it’s missing.

It takes several minutes of undignified crawling all over the floor even with Harvey calling Jim’s number and snickering, but finally Jim fishes his phone out from under the bench where it slid during the fight. It’s not broken, thankfully, although it sports a new scratch. When Jim checks it, there’s a missed call - from Oswald! - he notices with a rush of excitement running through his body, followed by a text message.

_“Jim, I couldn’t reach you, but there’s a new development that has been brought to my attention just now. Two of my employees who were Danny Martin’s friends, Louis Hardt and Vittorio Marano, have been missing since this morning. The two were also those remaining from Falcone’s time. They were explicitly prohibited from going to ‘Calico’, but it is entirely possible they could have disobeyed - which I am sure they’ve come to regret. I am sending you photos of them so it could aid you in the investigation. Good luck, Jim. Yours sincerely, Oswald.”_

Jim smiles reading this, and rereads it again. It’s not a love letter, not a passionate note, but it is so undeniably filled with Oswald’s feelings and care, it’s so undeniably personal that Jim feels tingly all over. Oswald really is a man after his heart, he grins.

“What are you grinning about, Jim?” Harvey asks, coming up to him. “I swear you look creepy like that.”

Jim coughs nervously, trying to erase the smile. “New clues, Harvey. We might get ahead of the killer this time!”

“Let me guess, a little bird told you?” Harvey frowns at Jim, who just shrugs. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“Delivery for Detective Gordon,” they hear a call from the entrance.

Jim goes to the desk sergeant who’s talking to a courier, and signs for the delivery. Inside the manila envelope handed to him are several photos of the missing mobsters, one, Louis, short and dumpy, with a sleazy smile and a shaved head, the other, Vittorio, bulky and dark, with a crooked nose and a scar over his cheek.

“Harvey, make some copies and put out an APB for these guys. They’ve been missing since morning, could be kidnapped by our killer,” Jim says, taking a couple of photos out of the bunch and handing the rest to him.

“What are you going to do?” Harvey asks, looking through the photos.

“I think it’s time I paid Fernando Montanari another visit.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this small development :)  
> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.


	13. Either/Or

 

Jim drives to Montanari’s office, but there’s only a receptionist left there, who says that her boss is out on business and will not return until the following day. Jim scoffs, this absence too inconvenient, especially now when he need answers - and probably a deterrent, to make Fernando Montanari think twice about going after Oswald in any way. But the receptionist doesn’t know anything and looks sincere when saying her boss left no information of his whereabouts. She’s too low-tier, or maybe even a regular civilian, to know anything.

Jim walks out of the building, thinking hard. He desperately needs information, because there’s bound to be a connection - and not only time-wise. But who could possibly know it? If Oswald knew, he’d have told Jim already. And maybe Montanari doesn’t know either. The points of convergence so far are the ‘Calico’ bar and the gym, at least from the Montanari’s side. He could check either.

Jim decides on going to the gym first, it being closer and more familiar. He probably needs Harvey’s backup for a visit to ‘Calico’ later, just in case.

The gym is the same unassuming place, but the atmosphere inside is changed, grim and tense, hardly any visitors there. The bubbly receptionist is no longer smiling with same ease, her face a frown - especially when she recognizes Jim.

“Hello, how can I help you?” she asks anyway, the same greeting as she’s no doubt obliged to say.

“Hi,” Jim says, “I’m Detective James Gordon, and I have a few questions about the members of this gym.”

“So I guess you’re not really related to Marco?” she asks with a confused smile. “But I really don’t know anything. I have a boyfriend, see, I’m not interested in chatting up the guys here,” she continues, sounding lost.

“It’s fine,” Jim smiles reassuringly. “I just need to know who else was friends with the victims. They also could be in danger, so I need to know where to find them.”

“I… I really don’t know,” the receptionist says and then her eyes get watery. “It’s just so sudden! Nobody told me anything, not until Vinni got… They were… oh, I knew who they were, but they were always nice. And they looked out for me too. I just can’t understand why’s this happening!” And she bursts into tears, wiping at her face like a child.

Jim is taken aback, surprised by the abrupt reaction, and for a moment he doesn’t know what to do.

“Is he bothering you, Katie?” Jim hears a gruff voice behind him, and, turning, sees a tall man looming over him, roughly in his twenties, with disproportionally wide shoulders. Definitely a steroids user.

“It’s alright, Dave,” the receptionist answers, quelling her tears and hiccuping. “I’m fine, I just… can’t believe they’re dead, that’s all.”

“Things like these are exactly what we’re trying to prevent at the GCPD,” Jim speaks softly, calming his voice. “So if you know anyone associated with them, please tell me.”

“Hah, tough chance, trusting a cop,” Dave scoffs. “You don’t care if we all drop dead.”

“We wouldn’t be investigating these murders at all if that was the case,” Jim speaks, having trouble keeping irritation out of his words. “We’d let you sort yourselves out and be done with it.” He turns to Katie again. “Isn’t there anyone else they were friends with?”

She wipes her cheeks and sniffles. “I… I think there was one guy. He doesn’t come often though. He is… uh, let me see.”

She starts leafing through the journal, sniffling. Dave still looms behind Jim’s shoulder, and Jim’s skin prickles uncomfortably at the sense of possible danger. He refrains from shifting his posture and keeps his attention on the receptionist.

“Yes! This one,” she stabs her finger at a page in triumph. “George Bryar. He was mostly friendly with Vinni though.”

“Ah. I remember him too,” Dave chips in, finally coming around Jim to stand next to the counter and peer at the journal. “Big old guy. Lives somewhere near the Narrows, right?”

“Yeah,” Katie nods. “Only comes about once or twice a week. Here, I’ll note it for you,” and she proceeds to write the address out on a slip of paper.

“Thanks,” Jim says, turning slightly to face both of them. “Do you know about the ‘Calico’ bar, by the way? Did he go there? Or any of the victims?”

“Duh. Everyone goes there. You won’t find a better price on booze in all of Gotham.”

“Yes, but were they regulars?”

Dave frowns. “I think? I saw them there every time I went. Not all of them together, just, they were there.”

Jim nods. This might just turn out to be useful after all. He takes the piece of paper with the address from Katie and frowns at it. Everything just centers around the Narrows in this case.

“By the way, does either of you know where to find Fernando Montanari?” Jim asks, looking up from the paper. Katie looks confused, Dave avoids his eyes.

“It’s above my pay grade, dude, even if I wanted to tell ya. Which I don’t.”

“Alright. Thanks for everything,” Jim nods to the receptionist before turning for the door. “If you recall anything else, contact me.”

 

This has been an unexpected bit of luck, that the Montanari grunts were members of the same gym and knew each other. That hints at the connection between them that goes beyond just ending up victims of the same killer. So maybe they were running a crew together, crossed someone unhinged enough to provoke this grudge? But what about Oswald’s men then? If they were members of one crew, Oswald had to know about it, but it was never mentioned, so in all probability Oswald didn’t know. Oswald, Oswald, the name keeps bouncing in Jim’s head, linked to affection, to warmth and the kiss, and Jim has to make a very deliberate effort to focus on driving and thinking about the case instead.

So, the bodies were always found in the Narrows or the immediate vicinity. No sightings on traffic or security cameras indicate an intimate knowledge of the district. The white van to transport the bodies, a virtual ghost in a big city. Just who could the killer be, and why does he target the remnants of the old mafia regime? The victims are selected in some way, Jim knows it, but he can’t understand the logic of it, not yet. He regrets not meeting with don Montanari earlier… but what could he have asked him? They didn’t have that connection between the victims then. And if it wasn’t for Oswald’s memory and position, they probably would have stumbled upon it too late, if at all. And Jim’s lips would probably never cease tingling at the mere thought of Oswald, and God, he’s in deeper than he thought.

Having reached the place, Jim parks his car and enters the building. The flat is on the third floor, the stairs are dim and rickety, and everything is dark. He knocks on the door and listens.

“Who’s there?” comes the voice from inside, tired and slurred.

“Jim Gordon, I’m a Detective with the GCPD. I have a few questions for you.”

“Huh. What if I don’t want to answer?”

“Remember Vinni, from the gym? He’s been murdered. You could be next, if we don’t catch the killer first,” Jim says, praying that the guy decides to cooperate. He really doesn’t need any more impediments in this investigation.

“Alright, Detective,” the man says and the door opens. “You got my attention.”

“Can I come in?”

“Geez. Alright,” he says, stepping aside and letting Jim pass inside. The flat is a mess, piles of discarded clothes on the floor, empty bottles and cigarette butts everywhere. Jim frowns as the man shuts the door and walks to the kitchen, making Jim follow.

The man opens the fridge and takes a bottle of beer out, opens it and takes a gulp. Huffing in satisfaction, he turns his attention back to Jim, who’s leaning against the doorframe, watching him. He is closer to Harvey’s age, but looking older, his hair having more salt than pepper, and there are deep lines in his face.

“So. What’s that business with Vinni?”

“First, are you George Bryar?” Jim asks, and continues when the man nods. “They told me at the gym that you were friends with Vinni, and also with Marco Fabbri and Fabio Gallo, also members of that gym. They were murdered, and we have reason to believe the murderer targets his victims based on some similarity.”

“And what could that be?” George asks, taking another gulp.

“The victims share a connection of being mafia grunts at the time when don Falcone ruled the crime families of Gotham. The ones from the Montanari’s side, and the ones from the Penguin’s side both.”

“Huh. So that little freak’s thugs are also a target? And here I thought he was coming after us,” George snorts. “Can’t even do that, ha!”

“Let’s get back on track,” Jim says, bristling despite himself. “Do you know these two?”

He takes out the photos and hands them to George. He looks at them, somewhat taken aback.

“Yeah. Louis, we used to run together before picking a side. So he’s dead too?”

“Probably,” Jim nods. “Do you know if there was something else similar between all of them? Some connection?”

George starts thinking, his brows furrowed, and he’s counting something on his fingers, waving them about. Jim waits with bated breath, this old and battered grunt possibly his best lead yet.

“Now what do you know, there _was_ a time when we all run into each other. Two times, actually,” George smirks and remembers his beer, downing the bottle in satisfaction. Jim watches him, hardly believing his luck, not saying anything so as not to discourage the grunt from speaking.

“It was about a couple of years ago? Sometime in Fall, I think. I have already been working with the Montanari family, Louis went to don Falcone. We ran into each other in the Midtown area, which our bosses were fighting over. There was a shootout. Louis nicked me. I shot him in the leg. Vinni shot some other guy, I don’t remember him. Marco and Fabio were in the car, they drove up and we got away, ‘cause the Falcones had an advantage on us.”

George thinks some more and nods. “The other time was a couple months after that. Ran into each other in the bar. Another disputed spot. There was a full-out brawl, broken bones, crushed skulls, that kind of thing. I think I broke one of Falcone’s boys jaw, heh. Good times.”

Jim lets out a small breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding. He looks square at George.

“Do you remember specifics? A street name, something like that?”

George shakes his head. “You expect too much, Detective. I could hardly remember when it all took place. The rest is on you.”

“Right,” Jim says. “We’ll look into it. For now, refrain from going out, especially to any bars you frequent. Stick to staying indoors. And if you remember anything, contact me.”

The grunt nods, and follows Jim to the front door.

“Not that I’m rooting for ya or anything. But nab that son of a bitch, will you?”

Jim nods, and walks out. On the way to the car he dials Oswald, wanting to hear his voice as much as his take on the new intel. There’s no answer. Jim frowns, and begins to write a text to him, but gets interrupted by an incoming call.

“Harvey? What is it?”

“Got witness statement placing Vittorio Marano at Lacker street, on the way to ‘Calico’ yesterday. We need to check it out, Jim.”

“Right. I’ll meet you at the precinct, got another lead to this whole mess. I need someone on the archives.”

“Got lucky with don Montanari, huh?”

“Not quite. I’ll tell you later.”

Jim hangs up and erases his text to Oswald, writing _“Call me when you can. Urgent”_ instead. This is no time for texts. He will need to meet him again, and not only because he longs to hold Oswald in his arms.

 

At the precinct Jim brings Harvey up to speed, and Ed, hovering nearby as always, volunteers to look through the archives with Kristen. Getting this issue out of the way, Jim and Harvey start for ‘Calico’, Harvey driving through the city with something weighing on his mind.

“So what do you make of it, Jim?” Harvey asks at last, stopping at the traffic light. “Could still be a turf war.”

“You’re really set on it, huh? Why?”

“I thought you’d be too, didn’t you want to clean up the city of this mob trash? Them going at each other like this is a perfect opportunity to lessen the load.” Harvey shakes his head, changing gears and stepping on gas. “And instead you get all chummy with Penguin.”

“I’m not going to let a murderer go free just because he’s killing other criminals, Harv. We spoke about it. Either everyone matters, or no one does.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing I don’t buy, Jim. It’s got something to do with Penguin and you’re being strange about it. I thought you’d cured yourself of the illusions on his part after that business with Falcone.”

“What illusions? I never had any!”

“Oh really? How about trusting him at his word? Giving him a gun? I swear, I almost had a heart attack when you handed him the rifle back at Loeb’s.”

“You’re still alive here after that, doesn’t that prove something?” Jim bristles despite himself, despite trying to keep his cool. But Harvey is right - and wrong, too. He reminds Jim of how dangerous it is to truly trust Oswald, how he should be careful, should keep his guard up. Oswald is a criminal, a killer. But Jim is a killer himself. And the Oswald in Jim’s memory is different. Dangerous, true, but loyal, loyal to Jim in spite of everything, and this makes trusting him so easy, Jim just does it unthinkingly, sure in his heart that the trust is mutual and precious to them both.

“Proves to me that you are hiding something. I was pulling your leg this morning, but Jim, don’t tell me you really did sleep with him!”

“I didn’t!” Though certainly not for the lack of desire, Jim thinks, feeling blood rush to his face. “And even if I did, it’s none of your damn business, Harvey.”

“Jim. I don’t care if you want to boff a bloke,” Harvey says with annoyance. “Just not this one.”

“And why the hell not?”

“He’s a criminal, Jim, do I really need to spell it out for you?”

“I don’t think notions like these stopped you from your liaisons with Fish. That’s what this all boils down to, no? You hate him for Fish.”

“Yeah, so? Doesn’t make him less of a criminal!”

“Makes you biased, that’s what it does. Prevents you from chasing the real criminal out there.”

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit, Jim Gordon, just because he might be innocent here, he’s still a real criminal alright.”

Jim takes a deep breath. Doesn’t work, but maybe, just maybe, he won’t bite Harvey’s head right off.

“Innocent until proven guilty, Harv. And in this case and investigation Oswald has been innocent so far.”

“‘Oswald’, huh?” Harvey smirks. “Since when he’s been ‘Oswald’? Since he kissed your hungover head better?”

Jim flushes bright red, lost for words. He tries to find a counter argument, something to explain his slip, but there’s nothing. Harvey looks at him sideways and sighs.

“For Christ’s sake, Jimbo, you’re so obvious. Give that bloke a smile, you’ll have him on your dick faster than a blink of an eye, and get it over with.” Harvey tsks. “Then maybe you could get your head on straight again and lock him up.”

Jim grits his teeth. Jim balls his fists. Jim looks straight ahead when he speaks.

“Harvey. I know that you’re my friend and you’re trying to look out for me. But for the love of God, shut _up_ , or I’ll make you.”

Harvey sighs. “Alright, Jim. Have it your way.”

The drive after is tense, Harvey keeping disapproving silence, Jim focusing on breathing. Who was it that said breathing techniques helped? The guy clearly had no idea how to actually calm yourself. And it wasn’t until Jim met an obstacle that wasn’t of his own making standing between him and Oswald that he had such an intense reaction. And what was he reacting to? To the thought that Oswald could be taken from him, that their tentative connection might be severed, not by their own hands, but by some outside force that cares so little for the way they feel? Jim shuts his mind to the implications. This is not the time.

“You think we’ll find that thug alive?” Harvey asks in the end, checking up the rearview mirror. “He was taken just a bit ago.”

“There still should be a chance,” Jim replies, his voice still rigid. “And there was a second one, that didn’t happen before. The killer could be distracted by either. Or they could cooperate and escape, if they’re not rendered helpless.”

“I looked into that serum stuff you had Nygma prepare, see. The thing is, the ingredients are pretty basic, could be purchased anywhere. And this killer is smart enough not to buy it in bulk.”

“Huh. So it’s another dead end,” Jim scoffs. “This case is full of them. Well, I don’t think the serum would’ve panned out. He’s been taking victims faster, and now he’s got two. If he was searching for answers, I think he’d found them already.”

“So what, you think he keeps killing for kicks?”

“Too specific about it. The tortures are deliberate, too. I still think we’re dealing with a grudge.”

“And I still say that doesn’t narrow it down for us, Jimbo.”

“Yeah. But maybe Ed will find something for us in the archives. A shootout between two mafia families should’ve made it into the papers.”

“Don’t get your hopes up just yet.”

 

Harvey parks the car on the corner. The dive bar looks exactly that, a seedy kind of place, where cops are hardly welcome. There are some grunts inside, and even a couple Jim knows are Oswald’s, and they meet his eyes with a kind of a nod before appearing to carry on with their drinking. Jim and Harvey make it to the bartender who looks at them in apprehension.

“Anything I can help you with, Detectives?”

“Looking for a regular of yours. Vittorio Marano,” Jim says, producing a photo out of his inner pocket slowly, aware of everyone at the bar tensing at this movement. The bartender looks at the photo with some trepidation.

“What did he get into?”

“See, pal, that’s what we’re trying to find out. He’s just another one of the victims, and most of them disappear after visiting this hole in the wall. Know anything about it?”

“No, Detective.”

“So what, you want to tell us you _don’t_ notice your regulars dropping off the radar?”

“Y’all know who we are, Detective. Is it that surprising for people in this line of work to wind up dead?”

“That’s beside the point,” Jim cuts in. “Now, have you seen this man recently?”

“Just yesterday, Detective. He spent several hours drinking over yonder and was gone past midnight.”

“Was he alone this whole time?”

“Of course not. He was with some friends.”

“How many? Are they regulars like him? Did he leave with any of them?” Jim leans in closer, leaving Harvey to watch his back, aware that everyone at the bar, however they might pretend otherwise, is hanging on to each word of this exchange.

“A couple, I reckon? Regulars. And he left before they did, alone.”

“Dammit,” Jim swears through his teeth. So whoever that was, he was either careful not to stand out, or he didn’t go into the bar at all.

“Did you notice any recent changes? Strangers coming in regularly? Any of the regulars changing their patterns? Anything unusual, anything at all?”

“I can’t help you there, Detective. We ain’t spying on our clients.”

_Like hell you don’t, in a place like this._ But Jim frowns and nods.

“Alright. If anything crosses your mind, contact me,” he says, turning back to face the rest of the bar. “That goes for all of you. If you have information about why the victims were targeted, come forward with it, for your own safety.”

They walk out, leaving the photo behind. Harvey lets out a deep breath, his shoulders sagging.

“Another dead end, eh?”

“Not really. We do know they disappear in the vicinity now, for certain.”

“You plan to stake it out?”

“Yes. And I got a better idea.” Harvey hums encouragingly and Jim continues. “We’ve gotta stake out the Narrows.”

 

 

 


	14. Sort Out Your Priorities

 

It’s brilliant, Jim thinks. The timeframe is perfect - kidnapping’s fresh, and the killer will have to dispose of the bodies soon enough. It’s callous, having to leave the kidnapped to their bitter fate, but there’s hardly anything the GCPD can do to help. Or want to help - because even with Barnes in charge the sentiment regarding criminals remains more or less the same, that being the city’s better off without them, regardless of method. Jim has to do his best presenting the idea to the captain, convincing him they have to do it to capture the culprit. So maybe he’s been killing mafia members for now, who knows if any civilians might get involved? Maybe the perp will get spotted and kills a witness? Gotham may be rotten to the core, but chances are that even with criminals as primary targets the innocent population is not exactly safe.

“Didn’t peg you for such eloquence, Gordon,” Barnes grunts before sanctioning the global Narrows stake-out operation.

The officers divide into teams of two and head out in various state of disguise, to haunt the unobserved nooks of the Narrows. Jim and Harvey go back to the bar, and park inconspicuously in an alley, overviewing the entrance.

They drink coffee and take notes of people going in and out. There aren’t many, not on the weekday, and this works out in their favour. Jim pays special attention to men associated with either the Montanari or with Oswald, and so far there have been three, two of them Montanari’s.

He never got that call back from Oswald, and he can’t actually make another one with Harvey sitting right there with him, just waiting for an opportunity to berate him again. But Jim’s made up his mind. Criminal, killer, it doesn’t matter. He wants Oswald in his life, needs him, with his wicked brain and blind loyalty and crooked integrity and questionable morals all. Jim can’t think of anyone else he’d rather have by his side in this city, a formidable ally and someone who cares enough to safeguard Jim’s soul. Jim can’t know why Oswald would want him, such a questionable prize for a mobster - a cop he won’t be able to play - but Jim sure wants to learn. A secret smile creeps up onto his lips again as he recalls Oswald from this morning - cheeks flushed pink, eyes sparkling, black hair in disarray, soft, so soft, and smiling at him. God, Jim misses him so much already, the phone in his pocket a dead, silent weight, and a twinge of anxiety creeping in that has nothing to do with the stakeout. It’s been a long time since Jim tried to call him, and there hasn’t even been a text in reply.

What is Jim thinking, getting involved with him? A mobster is as bad as a cop, maybe worse, in terms of making their partner worry and fear. They really are two peas in a pod alright, both plunging headlong into dangers for their goals. It will be such a wild trip, the two of them together. Skirting dangerous topics, worrying over safety, never knowing when they might read the other’s name in the morning newspaper… But also - oh! sweet smiles and kisses, working hand in hand for this vile city that both doesn’t deserve it and deserves it like nothing else on earth; and Jim gets a thrill just thinking about peeling all those layers off of Oswald, revealing his skin, learning just a bit more of him, pleasing, pleasing… He can hardly wait and only hopes desperately that Oswald would want at least some of it.

Harvey clears his throat, breaking Jim out of his fantasy world, and he tries to collect himself, control his face. No use giving Harvey more reasons for telling him off.

“So we’re prioritizing Montanari’s or Penguin’s, Jim? They’re bound to come out of there any moment.”

By the time they were leaving, Ed hadn’t found anything yet. He promised to text as soon as he discovered anything relevant, but the newspapers archives and old reports were numerous, and Jim didn’t hope to get results today. But it would’ve helped greatly, he can’t argue with that.

“Montanari’s.”

“Would’ve thunk you’d prefer keeping your little bird’s men safe, now that you’re sweet on him.”

“Harvey…” Jim growls. “It’s got nothing to do with anything. The killer’s taken more Montanari’s men so far. Either they’re his priority, or make easier targets.”

“Alright, alright. I swear you’ve lost all of your sense of humour recently.”

“Or maybe you’re just not as funny as you think you are, eh, Harv?” Jim attempts to grin, but it comes out strained. “Anyway, I think we have a higher chance with those.”

They fall silent again, watching the street. There’s hardly anyone in the street, an occasional passer-by, and that’s that. It makes it easier to spot anyone suspicious… and at the same time lowers any chances of success. The killer might be spotted just as easily, deterring him from making his move, or, which is worse, might spot _them_ waiting for him, even though Jim and Harvey took every precaution.

But maybe the killer’s not even here tonight. Maybe he’s at the Narrows, stuffing another body into another trash bin. Maybe he’s being apprehended by some other team and the report will come through on the radio any moment now. Ha! Jim doesn’t think they’ll get _that_ lucky that fast.

A Montanari grunt comes out of the bar, wobbling. Jim nods to Harvey and gets out of the car quietly, tailing the man. He follows him through the alleys, keeping his distance and trying not to attract attention. The tailing ends as soon as the grunt reaches a house and starts fumbling with the keys to the door. At last he finds them and stumbles into the hall, Jim watching him closely from behind a corner, and making sure he wasn’t a target. After the grunt closes the door, Jim stays by for a while, watching the windows and the adjoining streets, but there’s nothing suspicious, no movement, and Jim returns to Harvey and the car.

“Nothing?”

Jim just shakes his head and slips back into his seat. “What about here?”

“One more Montanari guy. This one,” Harvey shows him the dossier photo and Jim nods. “The Penguin sure’s got his men whipped, gotta hand it to him.”

Jim thought about it. Oswald couldn’t have failed to warn his men about the dangers, him being so fiercely possessive of his newly obtained forces. The fact that there even were several of Oswald’s men inside must mean he’s staking the place out on his own, not relying on the police efforts. Jim should feel offended maybe, but instead he’s proud and impressed by Oswald’s foresight. The two of them are going to make things right in the city, having each other’s back.

The phone in Jim’s pocket vibrates suddenly, making him jolt in surprise. He hurries to check it hoping for a reply from Oswald, but instead it’s a text from Ed.

He hides his disappointment as he reads it. Ed really did find something. Harvey looks at him questioningly, waiting.

“Ed found out about the shootout. It happened two years ago in November, two gangs going at it, three civilians dead. He’s working on getting more details.”

“Huh. Think we could find out about other potential victims? Tail them?”

“That’d be best, but…”

“Yeah, I know,” Harvey shakes his head. “They might’ve been offed already.”

Jim puts the phone back in his pocket, having checked that no, he hadn’t missed a text or a call from Oswald… there just wasn’t one. He tries not to dwell on it too much. Oswald is resourceful. Oswald knows how to survive, he always did. He doesn’t need Jim worrying over his well-being now.

 _Yeah, but what about those attempts?_ He never told Jim the truth behind those, although Jim is certain that truth is known to him. Why does he choose to hide it from him, is it so illegal Oswald thinks Jim might compromise his plans, be compromised himself? Jim wants to groan, and he wants Oswald in his arms too, preferably right now, to hold him and pry answers from his lips.

It’s way past midnight and it started to rain, droplets stuttering on the hood, and he’s getting drowsy. Harvey tells him to catch some Z’s, and at first Jim tries to protest, but the day has been long and he wasn’t in his best shape, and he nods off in the end. That rain makes an appearance in his dream is hardly a surprise.

Jim walks and walks through the darkness and it has a very distinct, very familiar shape that Jim _knows_. He’s been on this street, this exact lonely street, many times before. The darkness tries to swallow him again, flooding his lungs, but the voice rings through it and Jim remembers that there was someone else there, someone who gave him back control, and that he can swim and not just sink into the void, and he swims. His hand breaks through the darkness’ surface just as his lungs give out and he wakes up from Harvey shaking him forcefully.

“Good Heavens, Jim, what the hell is wrong with you?” Harvey asks in a voice tinged with fear.

“Nothing, Harv,” Jim mumbles, his lips numb. “A bad dream.”

“Some dream that was! Scared the shit out of me with the way you were breathing,” Harvey shakes his head. “At least I’m still good for staying awake like that. Geez. What was it even?”

Jim sits straighter in his seat. “I don’t remember, Harvey. You know how these things are.”

“Yeah,” his partner shakes his head again. “Drink some coffee, you look like a corpse.”

Jim reaches for the cup and drinks, the coffee barely warm but its bitterness still somewhat invigorating. The numbness fades away, the rain drumming on the car is a different sound from the dream, and Jim relaxes a little, the tension seeping out from his limbs. The street was so familiar this time, it felt like Jim walked it before - and he wasn’t alone then either. The one walking the street with him was… it was…

Jim can’t remember. He gets a mixture of feelings and doubts, like the one beside him was a friend - and at the same time wasn’t, like Jim knew he had to be wary of that person. And the voice. The voice was also so familiar this time, just barely on the edge of recognition, and it’s so, so frustrating that Jim can’t put his finger on who it belongs to.

“Any changes here?” Jim asks, trying to distract himself from the dream’s usual aftermath.

“No. Two Montanari guys still inside, and one Penguin’s. Do you think we have a chance?”

“To be completely honest, I think the guys at the Narrows have more chances than us,” Jim replies, frowning. “The killer has two victims, taken yesterday. I don’t think he’s out here looking for more… but he never took two before either.”

“Wish we knew what that psycho was thinking,” Harvey says, drinking his coffee. “It feels like things are escalating, who knows when he decides it’s best to just blow some stuff up.”

“I’m not sure it will come to that, Harvey. He doesn’t seem to be interested in mass killings.”

“Hope you’re right, Jim,” he says. “Hope you’re right.”

 

After a while two Montanari grunts walk out of the bar. Jim and Harvey follow them on foot together until they separate, forcing them to split as well. Jim follows his target through the rainy streets, and the guy is jumpy, forcing Jim to duck behind corners too often for his liking. But it doesn’t seem like anyone’s following the two of them, and Jim returns back to the car again after following his grunt to a condominium building. Harvey’s not there yet. Jim checks his phone, anxious, and there are no new messages.

It’s around three in the morning. Oswald is probably sleeping, that’s all. He must have had a busy day, since he skipped the first half of it taking care of Jim. He must have been distracted. He must have forgotten to reply.

No. Oswald couldn’t have just ‘forgotten’. Not to Jim. So he must be busy or too tired to reply. Maybe he’ll do it in the morning, thinking it better not to disturb Jim so late in the night? He is always too considerate. Perhaps it’s just that politeness of his preventing him from calling Jim. Perhaps it doesn’t mean that Oswald is in any kind of danger. Jim wants to hear his voice so badly, if only to know that he’s okay. He would even face Oswald getting angry with him.

He dials the number, but before it can connect, Harvey walks to the car and opens the door, drenched and weary. He sits heavily on the seat and says, “Hey, if you’re worried about me, I’m already here,” with a smirk. Jim smiles back uneasily, putting his phone away. The bar’s sign is turned off, the rest of the patrons must have walked out while Jim and Harvey were tailing their grunts.

“Home?” Harvey asks, starting the car.

“Home,” Jim nods. He will call Oswald first thing in the morning.

Jim really hopes he’s worried for no reason and Oswald would pick up his phone.

Pick up your phone, he thinks, as he settles on the couch and dials the number once more, regardless of the time. He can’t wait till morning to be sure. He has to know _now_.

Pick up your phone, Oswald.

_Pick up your phone._

 

 


	15. Convergence

 

 

Jim wakes up on his couch, the phone fallen to the floor and out of juice. Jim swears and plugs it in to charge, and he rushes to the shower and then back again to turn the phone on, and there’s still nothing. He dials Oswald’s number again.

No answer.

Jim takes a deep shaky breath. No. He has to keep his cool, now more than ever. Jim has no excuse for getting so worried, there have been no clues except for Oswald’s unnatural silence. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe Oswald’s phone is broken. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

The incoming call explodes into Jim’s thoughts and he almost drops the phone.

“Yes?” he answers, irritated beyond measure to hear his partner’s voice.

“Grumpy, eh?” Harvey says, sounding tired and annoyed as well. “Get your ass to the precinct. Nygma’s been up all night for ya.”

“Coming,” Jim says and hangs up. He grabs coffee on the way, and a hotdog, and he arrives to the precinct somewhat ready to face the day. There are many tired officers coming in, submitting reports, and the whole station is abuzz with tension. Jim gets a few glares which he brushes off, striding towards his desk.

“You owe me one, Detective Gordon!” Martinez calls out to him cheerfully across the precinct. “Me and Parks! We saw your white van!”

And he makes it to Jim through the crowd, and goes on to tell emphatically how they spotted it in one of the alleys and tried to sneak up on it, but the driver made them and sped away. They gave chase, of course, but the driver clearly knew the Narrows like the back of his hand and managed to lose them. Jim almost asks them what they’re being so proud about in that case, when Martinez produces a note.

“Partial plate, Detective! There’s also a photo but it’s being developed,” he waves it about before handing the piece of paper to Jim. “Hopefully there’s more in the picture.”

Jim thanks him, and although he didn’t believe they’d get lucky on the first try, this has been a great success. They may have spooked the killer, true, but… they’re getting closer, finally.

“Was there a body? Or did you scare him before he dumped one?”

“No body yet, Detective,” Parks pipes in. “He didn’t get out of the van before he made us.”

Jim nods, thanking her. Good. The killer will have to make another attempt at hiding the body. More chances for them to spot him. Sure, he might change locations, after all, wasn’t Danny Martin found outside of the Narrows? But he’s spooked. He knows they’re onto him, he knows the noose is tightening, and he might lose his cool. He might make a mistake. After all, that’s all they need - just one mistake.

“Good work, officers,” he says with a grin, clapping Parks and Martinez on their shoulders. “Get some rest now.”

He finally makes it to his desk where a pile of reports keeps growing. These are just brief initial notes, and most of them say ‘nothing of interest’ for sure. But maybe there’s something there as well - or the right report hasn’t come in yet.

Harvey’s at his desk with his feet perched up on the table and his hat pulled over his eyes, he looks tired and grey, and it seems like he’s sleeping, despite all the noise around him.

“Hey, Harvey,” Jim says softly, not really wanting to break his sleep. “Maybe you should go home, eh?”

“Shut up, Jim,” Harvey mumbles wearily. “Not my first rodeo. Go find Nygma.”

Jim shakes his head and goes to ME’s office by habit, but Ed isn’t there, and Jim almost slaps himself - of course he’s not there. He’s at the Archives Room. Once Jim makes it there, he sees Ed slumped in the chair, sleeping with his mouth open and his glasses askew on his face. The piles of documents are strewn all around the desk and the floor, and Jim steps around them, trying not to step on the folders and sheets. He taps Ed lightly on the shoulder, and the forensic scientist awakens with a violent jerk.

“Ah, Detective Gordon!” he smiles at him brightly, despite his eyes being bloodshot and sunken. “You finally made it. Come here, look, I have found your incident, and more!”

Ed gets up from the chair, and walks to the desk, taking a newspaper clipping out of one folder. “Here,” he says, holding it out to Jim. “It’s better if you read it before we go into details.”

Jim looks at him questioningly, but does as Ed says, and skims the clipping, taking in the important facts.

November 15th. Mercer street. Gunmen associated with Falcone and Montanari mafia clans involved in a shootout in front of a small store. Two customers fatally hit by stray bullets. Store owner run over by the getaway car, died on the spot.

Jim raises his head, looking at Ed. “So this is the incident that brings our victims together, right?”

“Yes, Detective,” Ed replies readily, stifling a yawn. “Excuse me. Now, there are two more men from the Montanari’s side that haven’t been killed yet. One is your witness, George Bryar, the other - Lukas Doyle, currently at Blackgate penitentiary. From Falcone’s side there are four more men. One dead already, unrelated, in a car accident last year. One also at Blackgate, a Roberto Cattaneo. That leaves two more men, Federico Bauli and Trevor Miller. Their whereabouts are currently unknown, but they have been working with the Penguin last.”

“I see,” Jim nods. So many potential victims, and while the ones at the penitentiary are probably safe for now, the same can’t be said about Bryar and two of Oswald’s men. “What about the civilians, Ed?”

“The customers were a man and a woman. I pulled up whatever information I could find, but they haven’t been any kind of interesting. Well. I make you smile the most. Who am I?”

Jim shoots him a look, like, really? But Ed looks earnest and tired and he did stay all night. Jim racks his mind.

“Photographer?”

“Yes!” Ed nods, beaming at Jim, and fine, it takes so little to be nice to this guy.

“She was a photographer at the local mall. Donna Groves, 47 years old, mother of two, a Sam Groves, 27, and a Pamela Groves, 14.”

“Was husband in the picture?”

“Yes. Matthew Groves, 48. Currently unemployed.”

Jim nods. Grudge possibility is still big in this case. A bereaved unemployed widower certainly has a motive and perhaps means.

“What about the other customer?”

“Jake Smith, 33. An office clerk, no known relatives.”

Jim nods once again. “What about the owner?”

“Mark Kostas, 37. Only relative is a sister, but she’s been living in Canada for the last ten years. Didn’t even come for the funeral.”

Funeral… right. Sometimes attended by people concealed from the deceased’s public life, like lovers or ex-partners or estranged relatives willing to pay their last respects.

“Do you have records about their funerals, Ed? Anything made it to papers?”

“I tried, Detective. But these events were too insignificant to warrant any photos. The journalists only wrote general stuff, like ‘attended by close friends’... that only goes for Mrs. Groves and Mr. Kostas.”

Jim frowns. So Smith was either completely alone or his friends or whoever didn’t make it to the funeral - or the papers. The Groves are looking more suspicious, after all, they have two able-bodied men with a big possibility of grudge festering inside these past two years. But - there’s also a younger kid to take care of, and families usually cope better in tragic circumstances.

“You said Kostas’ funeral was attended?”

“Yes. But impossible to know by whom, Detective. I could try accessing the Library archives now during the day, but chances are slim.”

“Thanks, Ed,” Jim says with a smile. “I’ll take it from here.”

He goes back to his desk, checking his phone on the way. Still nothing. No reply to his text, his earlier calls, or a text he sent before starting for work. Jim tries very, very hard not to let it get to him.

He skims through the submitted notes, his suspicions confirmed. Nothing of interest. Nothing of interest. Nothing of interest, but waste of time. True, it wasn’t entirely fruitless. A couple of drug dealers busted, a couple of pickpockets apprehended. All small fries anyway. He goes to get coffee, and brings a cup to Harvey, who wakes up from his slumber bleary-eyed and groggy.

“Harvey. Can I count on you to follow on that partial plate for the white van? The photo should be ready any minute now, too.”

“Sure, Jim,” Harvey says, sipping coffee and coming more awake. “I’ll call you as soon as we find anything definite.”

Jim nods and walks to the car. He drives to the address on the Mercer street, trying to focus only on the investigation. He can’t split himself, and he has to follow this as long as it takes, he can’t be abandoning the case now with so many breakthroughs earned for him by his colleagues. But his mind is divided, his soul thirsting after Oswald and his duties spurring him on with the case. Jim bites the inside of his cheek, trying to find some measure of focus for himself.

The Mercer street store is a small one, close to the corner. It has a bright sign with the word “Dittmar” over the entrance and it looks way too crisp for Gotham. Jim goes inside, looking for someone to ask about the case.

The cashier greets him with a smile.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Yeah. Detective Gordon, GCPD,” Jim says, showing his badge. “I’m looking for someone who could tell me about a shootout that happened here two years ago.”

“Oh,” the cashier blanches. “I’m afraid I don’t know nothing about it. I only came here last month.”

“Okay, what about your manager? Owner?”

“Y-yeah, I think he could know. Just a moment, let me write his number down for you…”

“Son, if you want to know what happened, you can ask me,” comes a thin voice from behind Jim, and when he turns, he sees a small old woman with a cane. “These new folks don’t know jack about this place anyway. Why did you move the cat food aisle again, Johnny boy?”

“We didn’t, Mrs. Peters,” the cashier rolls his eyes. “It just doesn’t have the brand you’re looking for.”

“See, son?” the old woman nods to the cashier and turns to Jim again. “Buy this old bird a coffee and I’ll tell you everything.”

Jim takes the note from the cashier and smiles at the woman. “Sure, Mrs… Peters, was it? Let me treat you.”

They walk to the nearest cafe where the woman orders something elaborate like triple cream latte with different kinds of syrup and Jim loses track at the fourth ingredient in the spices list, but then the old woman turns her attention to him and he smiles encouragingly.

“So, Mrs. Peters… about that incident?”

“Right,” she shakes her head slightly. “Awful business with those mobsters. They come here and start shooting left and right, injured a couple of folks, ran over poor Mark. At least he died fast... his friend didn’t even make it to him before his last breath.”

Friend? So there was someone else at the scene, someone not mentioned in the articles and reports?

“His friend?”

“Yes. Very nice man, so polite and handsome, always such a help. He and Mark were very close, he visited almost every day.”

“Do you remember his name?”

The lady sips her coffee before making a face.

“I think he was Alec… Travers? Tribbins? Something like that. He should have inherited the store, Mark always said he’d only trust Alec with it.” She takes another sip and a spoonful of whipped cream. “Mark loved this place. It’s such a shame it didn’t go to the person who shared his love.”

“Oh?” Jim raises his eyebrows. “How come?”

“Some legal hiccup, I think? They didn’t have their papers in order, so it went to Mark’s sister who sold it immediately. Alec wasn’t well off to buy what should have been his anyway.”

“Has he visited here? Have you seen him lately?”

“He comes over every couple of months. Still so polite and handsome, like before. And he always visits on Mark’s birthdays and the day he died.”

“When is that?”

“Oh, the birthday was just a week ago. You should’ve come sooner, son.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Peters,” Jim smiles. “Could you describe Alec for me?”

“Hmmm…” The lady taps her spoon on the edge of the cup. “He is taller than you, son. Please don’t take offence, but this old cat thinks him more handsome too.”

“None taken,” Jim smiles encouragingly. “What does he look like?”

“Uh… he’s got a thin face with high cheekbones, and his eyes are the colour of molten chocolate.  Fair complexion and blond hair to boot, very striking combination, bad for my weak heart.” The lady sighs and smiles. “He brings me flowers sometimes, the cheeky thing!”

Jim smiles politely. “Does he go into the store?”

“I don’t think so, son. After all, with Mark gone and the store owner changed, why would he?”

“Yes, I see,” Jim nods. “But you keep in contact? Since he comes visiting and all.”

“I just think he indulges me… I was there for Mark when he had troubles, so I think he honours his memory that way.”

“What do you two usually talk about?” This Alec is getting more suspicious by the minute, Jim feels it in his gut. Even if not the culprit, he’s definitely a person of interest.

“Ah, just this and that… weather, my health… Mark, of course. He misses him very much.” The lady eats the rest of the whipped cream, frowning thoughtfully. “He seemed more energetic lately though. Perhaps he’s finally moving on.”

“Oh?” Jim offers, his eyebrows raised.

“Just… he has this energy now, like something is trying to break out of him. Very unnerving, to be honest, it’s like he’s gonna confess he’s found a date and wants my approval, or maybe advice,” Mrs. Peters drinks the last bit of coffee. “I hope it’s a nice girl, if so.”

“I see,” Jim says. Every instinct of his is screaming this mysterious Alec is the man with answers. His actions are given too much thought, too deliberate and too drastic for a situation like this, but then again, Jim only knows the surface. For now.

“Are there any other people in the neighbourhood with whom Alec keeps contact?”

“Oh, don’t try to take away from an old girl feeling special, sonny!” The lady taps Jim’s hand in reprimand. “I’m the only one he sees.”

“Of course, Mrs. Peters. I don’t doubt that,” Jim smiles. “You’re definitely one of a kind.”

He gestures to the waiter and pays for the coffee. Mrs. Peters watches him with a coy smile and Jim offers a polite one in return. Harvey would tease him again if he knew.

“One more thing, Mrs. Peters. Were Alec and Mark close in age? Do you know how they’ve met?”

“Yes, they’ve been college roommates, I think? And they’ve been friends ever since. It was such a pleasure seeing them, what with nowadays people getting so distant…” The lady has a somber look on her lined face, but then she smiles at Jim again. “Better treasure your connections, sonny. Makes for a lonely old age otherwise.”

Jim nods uneasily, some sympathy tugging at his heart upon her words, all of his friendships floating up in his mind at once, so few to begin with, and apart from it all is Oswald. God. He needs to know that Oswald is alright and he can’t wait, not anymore.

“Thank you, Mrs. Peters. You’ve been a tremendous help. If you remember anything else, please feel free to call me anytime, alright?”

He nods his goodbye and returns to the car, checking the phone as he walks. Nothing. He dials his partner.

“Harvey? How’s that plate going?”

“Still processing it, Jim. The photo was also a partial one.”

“Alright. Get me someone to find anything we can on Alec Travers or Tribbins, college roommate of Mark Kostas, and put out an APB on him as well. He might be our guy,” Jim ignores Harvey’s surprised question and continues. “I’ll return to the precinct shortly. Gotta do something before that.”

He hangs up and drives straight to Oswald’s club, his heart inexplicably heavy with dread he doesn’t want to give a name to. Jim tells himself he’s winding himself up. There must be a perfectly normal reason for why Oswald isn’t answering him.

_Like what?!_ a hysterical voice screams in his head. _Like he suddenly decided he doesn’t want you after all? After all this dancing around, the hints, the kiss?_

There’s just no way, and it’s not because Jim feels that confident in his charm. There’s just _no way._ But he tries to cling hopelessly to the possibility that Oswald’s silence could be explained by something else than the thing he knows has really happened. He has to clear that last bit of doubt, and then...

At this point Jim almost wants it to be that Oswald decided he’d played with him enough and didn’t want him anymore. That, he could live with. Somehow. The other outcome is too terrible to think of.

Jim arrives at the club too high-strung and almost fraying, and he storms inside, looking around frantically. He sees Gabe who makes a beeline for him at once, the look on his face confirming Jim’s worst fears, and Jim doesn’t need to hear anything except details.

“When?” Jim snarls, grabbing Gabe’s arm.

“Last evening, Detective. He went to see his mother. Never made it to the car.”

“Is it Montanari?”

“No,” Gabe shakes his head. “We know their people. It’s someone else.”

“Do you people do anything? Did you see anything?” Jim has to hold himself back from shaking Gabe. The answers won’t come faster that way.

“Zsasz is out working his network. We’d know if it’s a business issue,” Gabe looks at him with worry and expectation, and this is too much.

“When were any of you going to _tell_ me?” Jim snaps. “When you’ve found the body, huh?!” He doesn’t hesitate to shake Gabe with force now, glaring up at him. “Anything like this happens, you come straight to _me,_ do you understand?”

“Yes, Detective,” he nods, not at all annoyed, acknowledging the command instead.

Jim releases him and lets out a breath. “First. Comb the area. You guys might have better chances than us. Anyone’s seen anything, you report to me at once. Second. We’re using Trevor Miller and Federico Bauli as bait. Send them to ‘Calico’. Keep an eye on them, subtly. Chances are slim, but we’re covering it regardless.”

Jim runs a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull them. He has to be in control. That’s Oswald’s only chance.

He has to get to the precinct.

“Get to it, Gabe,” Jim curtly juts his chin up and the big mobster inclines his head, almost bowing. Jim walks out of the club, right into the rain pouring down. Perfect. As if they had an abundance of clues to begin with.

Jim speeds through the streets towards the precinct, going above the limit and never noticing it. The phone rings.

“Gordon.”

“Detective,” comes the dispatcher's voice. “There’s another body from your case found.”

 

 

 


	16. Sharpened Like a Knife

 

 

“Where?”

“Oakley 4, Lower Midtown.”

Jim gulps before asking, “Is the body identified?” and then waits, the seconds trickling past like hours.

“It’s Marano.”

Jim lets out a breath. Yes. He’s still safe. Jim hasn’t lost him, not yet. But does he go to the scene or to the precinct? The address isn’t far. There must be some info - but then again, the perp definitely keeps a cool head. There probably isn’t anything of use.

“Is anyone at the scene?”

“Officers Hoult and Anders.”

Damn. None of the detectives, and it’s his case anyway, they wouldn’t interfere even if they liked him.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Jim curses and turns for the scene. He just needs to give it a look. It can be quick. Maybe the culprit did make a mistake. Now Jim has a clearer idea of who it may be, so it could help as well.

The rain makes everything wet and blurry and Jim almost misses the turn to Oakley, noticing it at the last moment. He stops the car before the cordoned area and steps out, turning his collar up against the elements. Officer Hoult gestures to him from under a canopied cafe entrance and leads him to an alley behind it when Jim approaches.

The trash bin is covered by a tarp, and Jim pulls it up to look at the victim, dreading a miscommunication all the while, - but ‘the Penguin’ is such a prominent figure, no one could mistake him for anyone else, especially this tall and darker-skinned guy. He has cuts all over his face too, the violent slashes over the skin, and it’s gruesome in another way that makes Jim’s stomach twist - the flash of Oswald being subjected to something like this while Jim wastes his time here.

No. Don’t think it a waste. You have to get whatever info you can find.

“Anyone saw a white van?” Jim asks, lowering the tarp back.

“No, Detective. It’s the rain, keeps everyone inside glued to telly.”

“I see. Was the one who found the body a cafe employee?” The officer nods and Jim continues, “Anything useful they can tell us?”

“Afraid no, Detective. They never saw anything and don’t know the vic here.”

What a surprise, Jim frowns. He goes to question the witness anyway, a small jumpy woman, and just gets more of the same - nothing, nothing, and more nothing. Jim directs the officers to canvass the area for the witnesses who’d seen the van, and gets back to the car, soaking wet and miserable. No calls from Gabe or Harvey yet. No info. He speeds to the precinct. The rain seems to be intensifying, just like the heavy feeling in his chest.

Once at the precinct, Jim goes straight to Harvey, who speaks with someone on the phone. He hangs up before Jim approaches.

“Got anything on Kostas’ roommate, Harv?” Jim asks curtly.

“A bit, Jim,” Harvey raises his head. “What’s wrong? You have this weird look,” he says, gesturing to his face with a frown.

Jim considered on the way back whether he should tell Harvey or not, his partner’s attitude pretty much a constant when it concerned Oswald. But… Harvey’s the only friend he’s really got here. Jim walks closer to him so that no one else would hear.

“Oswald,” he says tensely. “The perp’s got Oswald.”

And Jim doesn’t know what shows on his face as he says it, but his voice almost breaks and he hasn’t felt that way even when the Ogre took Barbara. Harvey frowns even more and then lets out a sigh.

“God, Jim. You’ve really got it bad for him, huh?” Harvey stands up and places his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “And you sure can pick ‘em,” he lets out a strained laugh. “Okay. Sit. I’ll tell you what we have so far.”

Jim sits obediently, but he’s so tense he keeps clenching his fists, unable to control it.

“We’ve tracked the van owner. The plates were stolen though, and it doesn’t link to Alec Travers, not directly.”

Jim looks up. “But there is a connection?”

“Yeah,” Harvey nods. “The driver whose plates were stolen, worked with Travers at the same delivery company a couple of months ago.”

“Good. Do we have an address?”

“We do. Midtown.”

“Let’s go then,” Jim jumps to his feet. “There’s no time to lose.”

“Jim. Think,” Harvey tries to slow him down. “He won’t be there and neither will he bring the victims there.”

“It’s our best lead,” Jim says tersely. “Who’s running point on gathering info about this guy?”

“Nygma.”

Ed hasn’t gone home? After the all-nighter he’s pulled? God. Jim can’t care about that, not now, he has to use whatever he can, and Ed with his out-of-the-box thinking is a valuable asset he _must_ use.

“He’s at the Archives?” Harvey nods and Jim starts walking. “Start the car. I’ll be in a minute.”

Jim rushes to the Archives, and true, Ed is there with piles of documents and several phones, making notes on a big sheet of paper.

“Ed!”

“Detective Gordon!” Ed looks at him with regret. “I don’t have anything of use yet, Detective.”

Jim walks to him and grabs his arm, looking up at him and never caring what shows up on his face.

“Ed, please. I need you to crack this puzzle as fast as you can, and even faster. I need to know where this guy is, where he could’ve taken the victims. It’s important.”

“...What is wrong, Detective?”

“He’s taken someone I can’t afford to lose. So please, Ed, do your best here.”

Ed smiles sheepishly and touches Jim’s hand in a gesture that’s meant to be reassuring. “I will, Detective. My best and beyond.”

“Thank you,” Jim says earnestly. “I’ll be waiting.”

He nods and walks out, rushing to Harvey in the car. They speed away as soon as he closes the door. Jim is glad he’s not the one driving, he wouldn’t be able to keep his mind on the road properly.

Harvey keeps glancing at him and Jim isn’t even bothered anymore. He can’t spend energy on putting up appearances when it all has to be dedicated to the search. He tries to profile the perp based on what he knows now that he’s certain it’s a person outside of mafia circles - he would’ve been easier to find otherwise with their tight-knit cosa nostra business.

So this Alec, a 37-something male, definitely with a grudge against mafiosi who have killed his friend and made him lose a significant piece of property. But the property doesn’t seem to be his focus, or he would have lashed out against the new owners, or perhaps the Canadian sister. But he didn’t, and the way he leaves the bodies of the victims is a more deep, more personal message. So the grudge is aimed at people who have killed the person important to him, and Jim doesn’t want to, but… he relates. Except this Alec is placing himself in the direct position to Jim as mafiosi were to him, and Jim grits his teeth. Oh, this is personal, personal alright.

They arrive to the address and get out of the car, the brief run across the sidewalk leaving them completely drenched, and they climb the stairs leaving wet footprints all over. Of course no one answers the door. Harvey kicks it in, Jim coming inside at once, gun at the ready. The one bedroom apartment is empty and barely lived-in, dust settled on the living room surfaces, everywhere except a shelf and a coffee table. Harvey checks the kitchen and exclaims that all groceries are frozen store-bought meals. Jim looks over the living room and the clean shelf, and he finds a binder tucked in between magazines, thick with newspaper clippings and notes spilling out the moment Jim takes it off the shelf.

Jim opens the binder, and the first thing he sees is a picture of two men, one dark-haired, stocky, with a kind smile and bright brown eyes - Mark Kostas. The other, blond and tall and handsome, has to be Alec. They have their arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling at the camera. Jim takes the photo and puts it in his pocket. They’ll need to make some copies.

The rest of the binder is full of notes describing the mafia members that fell victim to the killer - there are detailed tailings, personal info, notes of eavesdropped conversations, all chock-full of names, Gallo, Fabbri, Martin, Montanari, Falcone…

Jim doesn’t see Oswald’s name anywhere, nor the nickname he resents. There are no mentions, none at all, and Jim relaxes fractionally before noticing other names - the ones linked to the victims and to other such names. Informants, either willing or unwilling, and that means there’s no hope someone like Oswald can be safe, not with his prominence, not with his position. Jim grits his teeth.

“The bathroom here is squeaky clean and reeks of bleach,” Harvey says, coming into the room. “I think I even _taste_ the damn bleach now.” He makes a face. “Anything here, Jim?”

“Yeah,” Jim shows him the binder, and Harvey swears, shaking his head.

“Holy shit, Jim. This one is crazy about it.”

“It’s revenge, Harvey. All out of proportion, but… this is our guy.” And it feels so weird, it’s their major breakthrough and a piece of damning evidence, but all it does for Jim is intensify his distress. With someone so patient and deliberate holding Oswald as his prisoner, subjecting him to torture… Jim feels cold wash over him, but Harvey swears again, bringing him back to reality.

“Anything there to help us find him?”

_Focus, Jim. Focus._

Jim looks through the binder, but there’s hardly anything that points to a location of the murders. Only mentions of bars, condos, hangout spots… And nothing about anything else. Harvey continues to search the shelf and other nooks of the living room, and joins Jim after.

“We’ve gotta get this thing to Nygma,” Harvey says after a while. “He might see something we don’t.”

“Yeah,” Jim nods, reluctantly. “Did you see anything else that could help us?”

“No, Jim. This one is too thorough, there’s hardly a receipt left.”

“Shit,” he spits in frustration. “Better call that in anyway.”

His phone bursts with a ring then and Jim motions for Harvey to contact the precinct as he answers the call from an unknown number.

“Gordon.”

“Detective,” comes the low rumbling voice. Gabe. “One guy saw boss getting stuffed into a white van on the corner of Blakes and Hawthorne.”

“Good. Can you track it further?” Jim doesn’t care how Gabe would obtain this info. He can’t care. He can’t think of it _now._

“We’re doing that. I’ll keep in touch.”

“You do that,” Jim says and hangs up, looking back at Harvey who frowns.

“The team will be here in thirty. Any news?”

“He was spotted in our white van not far from the spot Marano’s been dumped at,” Jim tells Harvey, thinking hard. The killer could have been taking that road on his way back when he’d spotted Oswald, and it could narrow the possible routes… if only Blakes wasn’t a major road with a lot of connecting alleys and smaller roads.

“This damn guy knows his logistics, eh?” Harvey shakes his head with a humourless smile. “Two for one deal.”

“Yeah. It feels rushed though. Maybe he wasn’t planning on getting Oswald so soon - that’s why he was spotted.”

Maybe they have a chance now, to track him down and be there in time. But they have to act fast, Jim thinks, and he’s already made the decision.

“Harvey. Stay here and wait for the forensics, alright? Get in touch with your traffic cams team to try and track the van,” Jim speaks, his mind racing ahead, his words rushed. “I’ll go get this binder to Ed.”

“We shouldn’t separate, Jim. You might need backup anytime,” Harvey looks at him in concern.

“I know,” he smiles briefly, yet he barely registers Harvey’s train of thought. “But we can’t waste time either. Follow me as soon as you can.”

“Keep your head cool ‘til then, partner,” Harvey clasps his shoulder and Jim nods and leaves the apartment.

He drives back to the precinct, waiting for a call, any call, but nothing comes. He has to remind himself to stay calm, or at least breathe deeper every once in a while. Minutes are going by, washed away by the raindrops, and he’s not anywhere closer to making Oswald safe.

The thought of actually losing Oswald is cutting at Jim’s insides like a dull knife. He wouldn’t be able to spring back from it, he just wouldn’t. He’s come to terms with losing Barbara and letting her go. He’s come to terms with his relationship with Lee not working out and he’s almost stopped blaming himself that it didn’t. They were both important to him, both a part of his life he treasured still, both taught him something valuable and special. Oswald is everything and nothing of that, and if Gotham was to lose him, the city could just burn for all Jim cared.

Once at the precinct, Jim walks briskly to the Archives, but Ed isn’t there. Jim swears through his teeth and tries to make sense of the sheet Ed’s made notes on, and it’s almost starting to turn into something sensible when Ed walks in with a heavy whiff of antiseptics on him.

“Detective! Impeccable timing,” Ed beams at him, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve just examined the body of the recent victim.”

“And?” Jim looks up at him, hoping Ed won’t be going on with riddles this time.

“Tar! He’s got tar on him, like the first one!”

“So… Docks again?” It’s coming back to them, alright, and if only the area wasn’t so damn big, Jim would’ve rushed there already. “We can’t just scour it whole, too risky.”

“True. But you don’t have to scour all of it. This victim also has metal residue on his clothes, and the particles are peculiar only to--”

“Ed, _please!_ ” Jim exclaims, losing his patience. “Just say it.”

“The warehouses on the north-east side. They have metal shipments offloaded there every Monday.”

This narrows it down to only three.

“Good work, Ed!” Jim claps him on his arm, beaming. “I knew you’d find something for me!”

His mind races, he has to go there at once because there’s not a minute to spare - but what about backup? All of the officers are worn out after the night at the Narrows, and the ones that are there are spread thin. Harvey… Harvey will follow, sure. But Jim can get there earlier for reconnaissance.

“Ed. Thank you,” he says again. “Keep looking through this stuff just in case, alright?”

He turns and exits the Archives, barely hearing Ed call after him. The car is there waiting for him, engine rumbling. He gets in and drives, rain almost a curtain by now, hardly anything to see even in broad daylight. The traffic around him is slow and Jim keeps to smaller streets and detours to get ahead. The Docks seem quiet today as he arrives, hardly any noise and not a person in sight.

Jim gets out of the car a considerate distance away from the warehouses that could be his targets - won’t do to alert the criminal in any way even with the rain muffling the sounds around him. He wipes it off his face only to have it get into his eyes again, and walks on. The first warehouse is closer to the main Docks transport route and Jim doesn’t hold a lot of hope for it, and sure, no van parked nearby, no signs of any activity… It’s not a hundred percent certainty, but Jim moves further away from the center, keeping his eyes peeled.

It’s cold. No light comes through thick clouds, and the falling water comes down so hard it’s almost pushing him into the sludge under his boots. Jim trudges on. The shapes are blurry and uncertain around him, like there’s no up or down, left or right, like a water-filled void with no way out. Jim’s face grows numb and he suddenly has trouble breathing, his heart is beating like mad and on some level of his consciousness he knows he can’t swim through this, panic filling his lungs, but then -  then there’s a flash of Oswald by his side, holding his arm, the way his eyes smiled even when his lips didn’t, and Jim knows now, Jim knows now whose voice has been calling him all this time, whom he so desperately tried to reach without realizing.

“Oswald,” he whispers slowly, his senses no longer confused, and through the sheet of rain he now sees the white shape of a van in front of him. Then a sharp blow connects to the back of his head and Jim falls, his last thought being he never actually called Harvey.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry about updating so late, this was somehow not an easy chapter for me. I hope you still enjoyed it at least a little :)  
> The title is another reference to Fall Out Boy, if you're wondering.


	17. Gamble

 

Jim comes to in a vast room, shivering from his wet clothes clinging to his skin, but what restricts his movements are the ropes cutting deep into the skin on his wrists behind his back, and his ankles. He blinks, trying to get his eyes to focus on something, when he registers some movement to his left. He turns his head and despite the situation is immediately filled with relief.

Oswald is sitting right there, also tied up, and he’s looking at Jim in concern, and other than a bruise on his cheek, he seems unharmed. His mouth is taped shut, same as Jim’s, but his feet aren’t bound and he’s tapping nervously before he catches himself and stops. Jim nods to him, unable to do anything else at the moment, and tries wiggling his hands to see if there’s a way to break free. The rope feels thick and heavy, with no give, and Jim’s wrists get immediately sore and scratched as he tries to rub the rope on the edge of the chair. He feels that the bindings messed up the circulation in his feet too, but the hands are the best starting point.

Oswald turns his head to the left, towards something Jim can’t see, and listens carefully. Jim stills and strains his ears as well, but there’s nothing suspicious, no other noise but the soft shuffle of the rain. Oswald moves his shoulders awkwardly, trying to free his hands no doubt, and then stops, listening again. Jim resumes rubbing the ropes, but they feel way too thick and hardly fraying, the tape making his mouth itchy and not allowing to get enough air into his lungs. Oswald starts moving again, but stops almost immediately, and now Jim too can hear the steps coming closer.

“Well. You seem to be getting along,” Jim hears a low baritone behind, and then the man comes around to stand in front of him. Alec Travers. Exactly like in the photo, blond, brown-eyed, a good head taller than Jim, thicker too, but his good looks are marred by fatigue and nervous tension, his face looking sharp, almost gaunt.

“Don’t mind the ropes, Detective,” he says almost hospitably. “They’re just to make sure you don’t interfere.”

Jim wants to say what he thinks of that, but the tape makes him only hum frustratedly. Alec watches him with wonder.

“Now I have to say it will be a welcome change from talking to this scum. So, Detective…” he approaches and tears the tape off Jim’s mouth. “Let’s hear what you have to say.”

Jim gulps for air, irrationally grateful he doesn’t have moustache. He looks upwards at Alec who regards him with mild interest, trying to get a measure of him. He can’t intimidate him, probably can’t convince him to let them go - while Jim seems to still be a possibility, Oswald is most certainly not, so the only thing he _can_ do is buy time. Jim coughs, more for show than for anything else.

“Why’re you doing this?” he says, inhaling.

“Ah. ‘Why’. Nothing unexpected, but I guess I shouldn’t have been expecting a surprise. After all… but that doesn’t matter,” Alec waves his hand dismissively. “Surely you have some inkling by now? Gotham police can’t be that daft.”

Oswald catches Jim’s eye and nods minutely. Jim avoids looking at him more for fear of attracting the killer’s attention to Oswald, and looks straight at Alec instead, trying his best to hold his interest.

“Revenge, isn’t it?” Jim has his breath under control, but breathes deeper anyway. More sounds the better. And the best way to make him talk more is to… “You’ve lost the shop because of the mafia’s involvement.”

“Ha!” Alec throws his head back, laughing. “Wrong, Detective. The shop has no connection to it.”

“Really?” Jim asks, trying to shift in his chair and rub the ropes some more. Too thick. “You’re murdering those who killed the owner because you can’t get to his sister for some reason.” He coughs again, continuing to hold Alec’s gaze. “You on a no-fly list or something?”

Alec steps closer to Jim and now he has to stop rubbing the ropes. Barely any progress.

“I didn’t think you could be so far off. Aren’t you one of Gotham’s finest?” he says, looking at Jim with some contempt. “I have no hard feelings for Stefania. Well… except for her leaving all those years ago. But doesn’t mean I want to kill her.” Alec tilts his head to the side, looking bored. “One more try?”

And this doesn’t look good. He’s getting annoyed, Jim can feel it, annoyed with these distractions and red herrings. So much for buying time with contradictions. Truth will have to do.

“Mark Kostas,” Jim says quietly, to lure Alec into leaning closer. “You’re avenging his death.”

“Not so bad after all, huh? I think you were holding out on me, Detective,” Alec says with a bit of amusement. “Yes, it all goes back to Mark.” His face is overshadowed by some deep emotion, his gaze unfocused. It passes too quickly for Jim to even think of doing anything.

“You think you’re honouring his memory this way? Killing his killers?”

“It’s not that, Detective. Not quite.”

“Then what is it?”

Alec looks at him intently. “I think you know. So, Detective… do you _know?_ ”

Jim gulps. He’s known the answer for some time, his own feelings running surprisingly, frighteningly parallel, and he didn’t even need to see the photo to know he was right.

“You loved him,” he says slowly. “You can’t move on.”

“Gotham’s finest indeed,” Alec grins with a mix of glee and resentment. “Can actually get to the bottom of it. Who’d have thought.”

He starts pacing in front of Jim, giving him a chance to glance at Oswald. Oswald is pale, his shoulders twitching subtly, and he breathes through his nose a little too shallowly, as if not getting enough air, his eyes are focused and intense as he watches Jim, and Jim wants to tell him everything will be alright, but he doesn’t believe it. It’s either two for one or nothing, and both end up with them dead. Alec stops.

“It’s true. I love him. We’ve been together for so long, ever since college. Mark is my everything,” he says, watching Jim with a strange expression. “And when this scum run him over… you police did nothing!” he spits. “You let them go unpunished. You let them live - and Mark was _dead!_ ”

Jim flinches despite himself from this sudden verbal assault. Alec’s eyes look crazed, but he still maintains the air of being in control despite his tension. Jim does his best to shrink and appear as harmless as ever was possible for him, because now’s not the time to challenge this meticulous maniac, now is the time to let him talk as Jim continues to move his wrists.

“But I made peace with that. With your incompetence. I decided to take justice into my own hands.”

“A vigilante,” Jim smiles sourly. “Gotham’s had a few already.”

“No. I don’t care about protecting anyone anymore. Don’t care about other criminals. But they.... they _will_ pay.”

“We know who else was behind the accident. Let us take it into our hands,” Jim speaks slowly, with all conviction he can muster. “See them stand trial and get what’s due.”

“You just don’t get it, do you, Detective?” Alec shakes his head and tsks. “I don’t care about your brand of justice anymore. I care about mine.”

“But why do you need him then?” Jim chances to nod at Oswald who stills and hides the intensity in his eyes under the guise of fear. “He has nothing to do with the accident, nothing at all.”

“He has enough to do with it. You can’t be ignorant to who that is. The Penguin, Falcone’s right hand man even still. He will lead me to him, whether he wants to or not. I’ve learned to be persuasive.”

Jim shudders at the coldness in Alec’s voice, and his eyes dart to Oswald. He gulps.

“And then?..”

Alec looks at him as if Jim’s retarded. “I’ll kill him, of course. What else?”

“But you said it yourself,” Jim hears his words rushing out desperately. “His position is high. He’s certainly more useful to you alive.”

“What do you mean?” Alec asks, irritated.

“Let him talk,” Jim says. “You won’t regret it.”

Alec looks from Jim to Oswald, and back to Jim again dubiously, before shrugging. “Well, not like I have anything to lose here,” he says, and goes to tear the tape off Oswald’s mouth. Oswald also gasps, finally getting enough air. Jim watches him in concern, trying to rub the damn ropes harder while Alec is distracted.

“Heavens, Jim,” Oswald rasps, his voice strained. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, acquaintances, you two?” Alec sneers. “Even better. Speak then. Try to make me an offer.”

Oswald’s eyes dart to Jim and then focus on the man in front of him, earnest, so earnest, like the way he must have pleaded so many times before.

“Sir, if I may, I can certainly prove useful. I can lead you to both dons, Montanari and the now retired Falcone, I can give you the remaining members to do with as you please… I heard some of them were presently incarcerated at Blackgate penitentiary, and I assure you that will not pose any problems. You will be able to exert your noble revenge in the way you see fit.”

“Yeah,” Alec nods thoughtfully. “Sounds real nice. Except…” He takes the gun out of his waistband, a good Smith&Wesson Shield, highly unlikely to ever jam, and points it at Oswald’s chest. “You’re gonna tell me all that regardless, if you want to draw any more breaths.”

Oswald’s eyes widen, but Jim sees a dangerous glint in them, the one Oswald gets when he knows how thin the edge is.

“May I point out, sir, that if you do kill me, you will be unable to access the information you require for your plan?” Oswald licks his lips nervously. “I think we should cooperate on friendly terms instead.”

“Friendly?” Alec draws the word out in disgust. “With the likes of you? I don’t think so.” He clicks the safety off. “See, you’re going to tell me everything regardless. Either you do it now, spare yourself some pain, or…” he stretches his lips in a menacing grin. “We can do it the hard way. See how long you last until you break anyway.”

Oswald watches him, licking his lips once more, and then his eyes dart to Jim for one electrifying moment, and back to the killer again.

“...I won’t be forthcoming,” he says at last and Jim’s heart sinks with dread.

“See, I was almost hoping you would say that,” Alec says, his tone smooth with sadistic anticipation. He tucks the gun back in his belt and walks a few steps to the table near the wall. After some deliberation he takes a knife, a small, thin blade. Jim watches him, but it’s not the murder weapon, not yet.

Jim rubs the ropes with more vigour now, not caring for the noise, not caring for attracting attention. He can’t just do nothing, and he’d spring to his feet and ram the man, but his ankles are tied in a crossed fashion and there’s barely any feeling left in his feet, and he’d just fall down instead, providing a small distraction at best and not a save. Jim grits his teeth. He tries so hard to think of a way to convince, to escape, anything at all, and comes up short, and short, and short. This can’t be happening.

If Oswald speaks, Alec kills him. If Oswald doesn’t speak, Alec tortures him and then kills him. Jim feels so powerless, the ropes giving in too slowly - or do they give at all? - and his wrists are already a scratched mess, and the only thing Jim can do is attract Alec’s attention to himself - without tipping him off, because if they slip, if they show their hand… that breaking point will come much sooner. Double or nothing.

Alec approaches Oswald, showing him the knife deliberately, and Oswald does his best to look unimpressed, but Jim knows that, for all his bravado, he’s scared. It’s visible in the tension in his neck, in the stiffness of his shoulders and he draws in a breath that sounds just wrong.

“Hey!” Jim calls out to Alec in his best commanding voice. “You know the consequences that will follow if you don’t stop? You’re currently in the presence of an officer of the law, and have confessed to a number of crimes.”

“I don’t really care, Detective,” he turns towards him, twirling the knife. “You lot won’t get me.”

“Oh really?” Jim sneers. “ _I_ got to you. And as you could see, I’m not the brightest.”

Alec laughs. “You’re trying to downplay yourself, Detective. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to actually save this piece of trash.” He steps closer to Oswald and runs the blunt side of the knife over his cheek. “Now, you can just sit back and enjoy the show.”

Oswald tenses all over, his expression frozen, and he can’t look away from the knife in front of his face. Jim’s blood all but boils, thrumming in his ears, as Alec turns the blade to Oswald’s skin.

“Stop!” Jim cries, knowing it’s futile, knowing it’s worse, but he can’t stop himself, not when Oswald pales and looks at him, his eyes haunted and bright with fear, actual fear now. Alec scowls and straightens up, looking at Jim.

“Why?” he asks, annoyed. “Why do you care?”

“I can’t let you harm an innocent man,” Jim says, trying his best to sound convincing and impassive when everything inside just screams like a tortured beast, yelling at the killer to keep his grubby paws away from what is Jim’s. “He has nothing to do with the case, you can’t justify that with your revenge plan.”

Alec rolls his eyes and takes a step to Jim. “Have you not been paying attention, Detective? This one is hardly innocent, he’s a gangster and a killer. You should thank me for ridding the city of the likes of him.”

“You’re going against the law,” Jim replies lamely. “I can’t let it slide.”

“Law, ha! Where was your law when the gangsters divided the city between themselves?” Alec approaches Jim now, his gaze growing more hateful with every step, with every word. “Where was your law when they gunned innocent people down? Where was your law when you let Mark’s killers go free?” He’s standing right in front of Jim now, waving the hand with the knife in front of Jim’s face. “Where were you? Protecting some other criminal?” Alec’s voice keeps rising, and then he just drops the knife and reaches for his pistol instead. He points the gun to Jim’s head, cocking it. “I didn’t plan to do that. But you, Detective, you force my hand. If you side with the criminals, if you stand in the way of justice… you deserve to be killed.”

Jim stares at the barrel of the gun aimed at his forehead, and this - this is it. Even if he does ram the man, the shot will probably incapacitate him even if it doesn’t kill him outright, and there’s just no use hoping for the cavalry. No matter how hard Jim thinks, he can’t see a solution to this, can’t see a way out, and he never thought he’d die like that, unable to protect the one dear to him, unable to even share the demise with him and support him in his last hours. To have all of their maybes and all of their would-bes cut so short sucks. This… This just majorly sucks.

“Any last words?” Alec sneers.

“Yes,” Jim says, his throat dry and constricted with tension. He looks at Oswald staring back at him with terror in his eyes, and it’s not the way he wanted any of this to go, this isn’t what he hoped to see when he finally voiced it, but their luck and their timing have always been terrible.

“Oswald,” he says, his voice soft and urgent. “Oswald, God knows I didn’t want for you to hear it this way. I wanted to take you out somewhere nice, wanted you to enjoy yourself, and then… then I’d tell you that I loved you. Because it’s true, Oswald, I love you despite knowing I shouldn’t, despite knowing who and what you are, and still… I wanted us to go through life together making this freak city better, I wanted to wake up every day to you smiling at me. I wanted-- I wanted all of you, and I’d give you all of me if you wished so.”

“By God, you’re worse than they are,” Alec says with disgust and tightens his hand on the gun, but Jim doesn’t look at him at all, focused entirely on Oswald and every minute detail of his face, because if this is it, if this is the way he goes, he wants the last thing he sees be something he loves. Jim smiles as the time stretches around him, Oswald’s eyes burning through it all.

As if in slow motion he sees Alec’s finger start pulling the trigger, just as Oswald suddenly sheds his bindings and lunges at Alec with a yell.

Then time speeds up again as Alec stumbles and Oswald hits him in the gut.

The pistol drops. Alec punches Oswald viciously in the face and grabs his throat, snarling at him. Oswald claws at his hands, kicking at his legs, and Alec tightens his grip, bringing Oswald to his knees.

Jim tilts full-body, trying his best to control the fall as he rams headlong into the killer, knocking him back. He doesn’t see anything after, his head spinning from the impact, but he tries to turn somehow, and then he hears Alec cry out in pain and hears a sharp, sharp sound of the knife, and then more grunting, and suddenly everything ends with a gunshot.

The silence is deafening.

Jim tries his hardest to turn, so desperate now, the damn chair too sturdy and heavy and he doesn’t feel his feet, or his hands, or his jaw for that matter, but he has to know, now, _now--_

“Shh, Jim,” he hears Oswald’s rasping voice. “It’s alright.”

And then his hands are free again, and the chair is kicked away, and Oswald turns him over, looking at him in concern and relief, and Jim clumsily reaches for him then, and grips his shoulders as tight as his numb fingers can.

Oswald cups his face with his hands, smiling, his eyes glistening with tears.

“It’s alright,” he says again softly. “It’s alright.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gun research took so much time for all the couple sentences it was used for XD  
> Just in case you were wondering, the pistol used here is a Smith&Wesson M&P Shield, one of the most reliable models, also coming with the option of manual safety lock.  
> Ugh. I don't wanna research guns anytime soon.


	18. Heel

 

Jim looks at him for a whole blessed ten seconds, dazed, incredulous, before his instincts kick in and he turns to check on the killer. Alec is lying not far from them, an entry wound on his chest blooming with blood. He breathes with difficulty, unable to move, but Jim won’t be taking any chances. It’s still not over.

“Hold him at gunpoint, Oswald,” he says, looking about. The knife’s right there, bloodied, and Jim reaches for it as Oswald nods and stands up awkwardly, aiming the gun at Alec. Jim slashes the rope on his ankles and rubs them hard, trying to restore circulation. Standing doesn’t seem to be an option right now.

Jim crawls towards Alec with the rope in his hand. His hands tingle all over, but at least he can move them, and he wraps the rope around Alec’s wrists, tightening it as much as he can, before he even pays attention to the wound. It’s on the right side of Alec’s chest, and it looks like it went through his lung, and Jim shouldn’t care, but he’s spent too much time, too much energy for his perp to just die on him, so he turns him over on the side, as instructed in the army, and folds his handkerchief to press it to the wound. Jim brings Alec’s bound hands to it, pressing.

“Hold it like that if you want to live,” he says gruffly, and attempts to stand up. His knees wobble, from the impact, from the shock, his feet still being unsure, but Jim can support himself right now. He looks at Oswald, standing there with the gun trained on Alec, his gaze hard, and Jim feels like he can finally, truly breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, taking in a new bruise on Oswald’s jaw and red angry marks on his neck, and he almost regrets not letting Alec bleed out.

Oswald nods, lowering the gun. “Yes, Jim.”

His hands are slightly trembling from the adrenaline spike, still, but he looks so composed and confident, as if he’s been in control from the start, and Jim is overwhelmed with how much he loves him. He hobbles to Oswald slowly, and touches his wounded face, checking the damage, and the bruises on skin this pale look offensive, stark, making Jim grit his teeth. Oswald smiles at him with shyness, covering Jim’s palm with his own, and Jim looks at his own raw wrists and frowns.

“How did you manage that?” Jim asks softly. “I couldn’t get those ropes off at all.”

“People do underestimate cufflinks so,” Oswald says, just a little bit cocky. “And mine are specially made to have sharp edges. But…” he continues, his eyes darkening, “I could only manage it at the last minute, thanks to you buying me time.”

“Hell, I don’t want any more close calls like that,” Jim murmurs, stroking Oswald’s cheek. “And speaking of calls…” He breaks away reluctantly and rummages through his pockets.

“He’s smashed your phone, Jim,” Oswald says with sympathy. “But he’s kept mine. It should be on that table.”

Jim walks there and finds Oswald’s flip phone among the piles of bloodied rags and knives and ropes. He opens it to see one single text from Gabe saying “ _It’s on_ ”, sent just a couple of hours ago, but dismisses it to dial Harvey.

“Harvey, it’s me--” he says, but is cut off immediately.

“Jim! For God’s sake!” Harvey shouts at him, all worried and furious. “Are you at the Docks?! I’m on my way!”

“Yeah,” Jim says, cringing at the loud voice. “Second one on the north-east side. We’ve apprehended the killer. Call it in, and we need an ambulance ASAP.”

“You, or the bird?”

“Neither,” he says, feeling warm at the concern in Harvey’s voice. “The perp’s got one in the lung.”

“I’ll be there in five,” Harvey replies, somewhat calming down. “Don’t do anything rash no more.”

Jim hangs up and walks back, trading Oswald the phone for the pistol which he puts in his pocket.

“Don’t want anyone getting twitchy over it,” he says with a smile. That’s the last thing he needs, to have some GCPD hothead getting ideas and shooting at Oswald over a misunderstanding.

“Quite,” Oswald agrees, and checks the phone. He frowns a little, then raises his head to face Jim, and his eyes, God, his eyes. Jim can’t resist this pull, how did he even manage that before, was he a complete hardass? It’s impossible.

Jim gathers Oswald in his arms, hugging him tight. “I meant every word,” he says, his throat tense again with emotion, the aftermath catching up with him at last. “I tried denying it for so long, Oswald, but I’m through with that. I’m through.”

Oswald embraces him back, and the warmth from his hands does something inexplicable to Jim, making him shiver and tingle and reach for Oswald’s lips, and he kisses him greedily, exhilarated at being alive, at being alive _together_ , so when Oswald kisses him back just as greedily, he feels that they truly are as one. He doesn’t want to break away, ever, but the distant sound of the police siren approaching pulls them apart. Oswald looks at him with a strange expression, as if struggling with something.

“Jim,” he says at last, his voice tight. “Please don’t think I’m trying to dismiss your words - I’m not, not at all, and I don’t want to put you in this position so soon, and don’t want you thinking I’m under any illusions of having the upper hand here or anything. But… I really can’t be spending time at the precinct giving statements right now.”

“Something wrong?” Jim asks, concerned more by the tone of Oswald’s voice than by his words.

“Don Montanari’s made a drastic move against me,” Oswald says. “I have to get there and retaliate accordingly.”

Jim’s heart sinks. This does come too soon, and he’s not entirely ready, but his mind keeps throwing him possible excuses even now, when he doesn’t have any details, and he’ll be damned if he lets Oswald plunge into some new danger right away without having his back.

“What did he do, Oswald?”

“He tried to capture my mother,” Oswald says, still as tightly. “He now thinks he can lord over me by having a hostage. I must teach him and anyone else attempting to follow in his footsteps just how wrong that line of thinking is.”

Jim lets out a sigh. It could’ve been worse, actually.

“Alright. I’m coming with you.”

“Jim, are you sure? You’ll be compromised.”

“It’s a hostage situation, right? I have some experience with those,” Jim smirks, squeezing Oswald’s hand. “I’m not letting you out of my sight any time soon, either.”

“Alright,” Oswald smiles back, tension easing up in him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Then they hear heavy footsteps approaching and Jim releases Oswald’s hand reluctantly just before Harvey shows up, gun at the ready.

“Jim!” he exclaims with relief. “Goddammit, partner, I told you to keep your head cool.”

“Sorry, Harv,” Jim smiles at him. “It worked out though.”

There are more sirens approaching, and Jim glances outside the window to see the cars, and an ambulance, making it through the rain towards their warehouse.

“I hate to drop it in your lap like this, Harvey,” he says, turning back and taking Oswald’s hand again. “But we’re needed elsewhere, so please take charge of all the processing until I get back.” They start for the exit together, Harvey looking at them in bewilderment. “Also, I’m commandeering your car.”

They exit the warehouse and make it through the throngs of police cars to Harvey’s, and start out of the Docks, Jim driving. He feels so relaxed it’s hardly believable they’re actually driving towards another dangerous situation, towards criminal conflict, but just one glance at Oswald, still so composed as he types texts on his phone, fills Jim with confidence.

“Where to?” he asks once they’re out of the Docks area.

“My club first,” Oswald says. “We’ll need both the manpower and the firepower, and I’ve instructed my men to gather there.”

“Alright,” Jim says, turning towards the club. “You already have a plan?”

“Of course, Jim,” he replies with a smile. “Don Montanari sent me a location where I am to arrive and surrender my control over Gotham to him. I don’t believe he would honour his word though and let me leave just like that, so I’ve taken precautions.”

“Wait, but you’ve only received the threat today.”

“Oh, Jim,” Oswald shakes his head. “I’ve been awaiting his move against me for some time. Of course I’ve prepared some contingencies beforehand.”

“I see,” Jim smiles despite himself. “Remind me to never play chess with you.”

“On the contrary, Jim, I think you should,” Oswald says with warmth. “But I vastly prefer real challenges to the imaginary ones.”

Despite the rain, they make it to the club quickly, and Oswald doesn’t waste any time at all and starts giving instructions to his men as soon as they stroll through the door. If Jim ever wanted to know who was in Oswald’s employ, he could see all of their faces clearly now, as in a line-up. They are eyeing him with suspicion, but they listen to Oswald’s commands attentively and get ready, never questioning Jim’s presence. There are crates of weapons stashed behind the bar, and Jim is taken aback when they’re opened.

“How did you even procure the newest Remingtons?” he asks, taking the rifle and looking it over. “GCPD still uses the previous gen ones.”

“Good to know,” Oswald smirks. “I could provide you with those after we’re done, or hook you up with my source. But their origin is not exactly legal, Jim.”

“Thought as much,” Jim grumbles, but doesn’t put the rifle back, loading it instead. “Wait, where’s your vest?”

“My vest?” Oswald asks, looking dubiously at his three-piece suit, slightly damaged by the earlier ordeal. “What do you mean?”

“The bulletproof vest. Do you…” and then it hits Jim that it’s always like that with him. That Oswald’s always facing danger without any means of protection, that he’s almost expected to. It tugs at his heartstrings way too hard and he wants to hug Oswald and not let him go with the plan, but… He can’t, can he? The stakes are high, the lives are in danger, and Montanari forces their hand. Jim frowns.

“Nevermind, Oswald,” he says softly. “Just try to stay out of the line of fire.”

 

Oswald’s men require a lot less instructions than Jim would have expected, and in just a few minutes they’re all getting into cars and driving towards the destination, an abandoned building in Lower Gotham. He feels like someone out of a Western movie, in a borrowed leather jacket and with a scarf to mask his face, but Oswald insisted on this camouflage.

“My men know better than to talk about it,” he said, leaving no space for arguments. “But I can’t vouch for Montanari’s, and I’m not compromising you further, James.”

Jim takes a tally of their forces, it’s not like he doesn’t trust Oswald to be thorough in his plans, but who knows what swift decisions they might have to make on the spot. Some extra thought to the tactics won’t hurt. They have ten men with rifles and a couple with Tommy guns, and Zsasz is expected to provide sniping efforts. Jim hasn’t seen him yet, but Oswald doesn’t have any doubts that the assassin is already at the designated place with the rest of his crew. Jim makes a mental note of it, but leaves Zsasz out of his equations until he can actually verify the man’s assistance.

“Turn left here,” Oswald instructs him as they enter the area, and Jim doesn’t like this one bit. The streets are too narrow, crowded with bins and crates, and they’re not gonna be easy to maneuver if they need a hasty retreat. The area in front of the building has an opening, with a couple cars parked there already. Montanari’s.

Jim stops the car and they exit, Gabe taking the driver’s seat and turning the car around. The rest of Oswald’s men leave their van and stand in front of it, awaiting signal. Oswald takes it all in, nods, squeezes Jim’s arm in passing, and walks into the building, his head high. Jim follows him with a heavy heart, the rest of the men behind him. Inside the building, most probably some public office previously, the spacious lobby is empty save for the chair with the old woman sitting in it, her hands tied in front of her and her mouth gagged. Fernando Montanari stands right behind her, his hands on her shoulders and an unpleasant smile on his lips. He’s accompanied by a dozen henchmen, all with sub-machine guns. This doesn’t look good at all.

“If it isn’t the Penguin,” the don drawls out with satisfaction. “You should’ve kept your weaknesses more guarded, but then again, you’ve always been an ignorant upstart.”

“You don’t have to rub it in, Don Montanari,” Oswald says, his voice tense with anxiety. “Please release my mother at once.”

“Just as soon as you come here and kiss this hand,” Montanari smirks and waves his hand suggestively. “You will need to show your men who is really in charge.”

Jim sees Oswald’s back grow rigid, his fingers digging into his palms, but all he can do for now is watch. This is a different play, a different situation from anything else he’d experienced before, and the stakes are layered, with Oswald’s empire being at the center of it.

“Forgive me for not taking your word for it, Don Montanari,” Oswald speaks, his voice placating and deferential, and Jim’s skin crawls at hearing him this way. “May I propose a compromise? You release Mother, and I come up to you instead. As soon as she reaches my men, I… I kiss your hand and surrender what is mine to you.”

“A trade-off?” Montanari frowns, but then smiles and claps the woman on her shoulder, making her flinch and Oswald’s eyes darken. “Alright. No one can say that Fernando Montanari is not generous to his subjects. Go on, lady, walk.” He prods her in the back, urging her to stand up. She rises from the chair and makes a few uncertain steps towards Oswald.

“It’s alright, Mother,” he says, softly. “Just come this way. Everything will be alright.”

He starts walking towards her as well, his back just as straight, and Jim watches them meet in the middle, exchanging glances, and Oswald smiles at her gently, and walks on. Gertrud reaches Jim, and he swiftly pushes her behind the line of Oswald’s armed men, where she is led away outside. When Jim turns, Oswald is standing in front of don Montanari, who leers at him.

“I don’t like the look of you, Penguin,” he says, holding out his hand. “I think you should better kneel.”

“I won’t be taking you up on that offer, Don Montanari,” Oswald smiles, and steps just a little to the right, and then the bullet passes right through Montanari’s shoulder.

Zsasz really is a sharpshooter, Jim thinks, impressed despite himself and aiming his rifle, as Montanari falls to his knees with a cry, Oswald pressing down on his injured shoulder. Oswald’s men are aiming their rifles at Montanari’s, who were taken aback and stare at them, but are unable to shoot with their boss in the line of fire. Oswald squeezes his hand firmer on Montanari’s shoulder, making him yelp.

“You will tell your men to stand down, _Fernando_ ,” Oswald speaks softly. “And then you will crawl back into your hole and never attempt to threaten what is mine, if you value your life.”

“You little--”

“No,” Oswald says, his voice velvet and steel, and digs his fingers deeper into Montanari’s shoulder, wringing another cry of pain out of him. “Tell them to stand down.”

Montanari looks at Oswald with hate burning in his eyes, but Jim sees him now clearly for the petty and short-sighted criminal that he is, and he knows that cowards like these will always yield and fold under the right pressure. And Oswald just always seems to know which buttons to push, and it should scare Jim or deter him, but instead it turns him on, both mentally and physically, making him crave more.

“S-stand down,” Montanari grunts with difficulty, his eyes losing their fire, and his men lower their guns while Oswald’s don’t. The girls from Zsasz’s crew step out of the shadows and disarm them completely, taking their sub-machine guns to Oswald’s side. Oswald releases Montanari then and gestures to his men.

“Take your boss to a doctor,” he says, turning back and strolling towards the exit. Jim waits until he’s out, and follows, leaving Oswald’s men to supervise the rest, and he half-expects to hear gunshots once he’s out, but nothing comes, and Oswald does take him into consideration like this - never wanting to taint Jim or make him an accessory, going out of his way even if it complicates things for him.

Gertrud is sitting in the car beside Gabe, and Oswald gets in the backseat, beckoning for Jim to join him. Once they’re both inside, Gabe starts driving, hurrying to leave the narrow streets that can so easily become a bottleneck and a trap.

“Home, please, Gabe,” Oswald says, his voice tired, his hand finding Jim’s as he closes his eyes. Jim squeezes it reassuringly, feeling Oswald relax. He doesn’t speak and watches Oswald instead, his face tired, marred with bruises, but still beautiful, and Jim wants to just wrap him in his arms for the rest of the day at least.

He expects Gabe to bring them to the club, or maybe Gertrud’s house, but instead he stops the car at the outskirts of Downtown Gotham, near an apartment complex that looks almost as posh as Barbara’s.

“We’re here, Boss,” Gabe says, breaking Oswald out of his slumber. Oswald rubs his eyes and gets out of the car, Jim following him.

Oswald leans to the window and looks at his mother before saying “Thank you,” with feeling, and then to Gabe, “Take her home, please.”

Jim feels weird watching this. From what he gathered in their last meeting with Gertrud, she was very fond of her son, dependent and attached to him almost in an unhealthy way, and it was apparent that Oswald loved his mother very much in turn, and to see them behave like this doesn’t seem right. He follows Oswald into the complex and the elevator taking them to the 13th floor, and as soon as the elevator doors close Oswald leans into Jim with a sigh. Jim strokes his back gently and kisses the top of his head, trying to make sense of this situation despite himself. It must have been stress that made both mother and son act uncharacteristically restrained, or the presence of others.

“Your mother is as composed as you are,” he murmurs into Oswald’s hair fondly. “I guess I should have expected that.”

Oswald sighs again as the doors open and they part to exit, but he squeezes Jim’s hand, never letting go, even as he unlocks the door to the apartment and leads them inside. He turns to face Jim then, his eyes filled with worry Jim didn’t expect to see, and he struggles with something, but then he seems to make up his mind.

He looks Jim in the eye, and says, “That wasn’t my mother, Jim.”

 

 


	19. As Much As I Do

 

“What?”

“That woman wasn’t my mother,” Oswald repeats, looking at Jim with that worry again, and Jim’s heart sinks.

“What do you mean? Is she still in danger?”

“No. She was never in danger to begin with.”

“Oswald,” Jim holds him by the shoulders. “Please explain.”

“I… I will, Jim,” he says, despondent. “You’ll take everything back then, but… I shouldn’t indulge in these illusions anyway.”

He breaks away from Jim and walks further into the apartment, flopping onto the plush couch near the window. As Jim walks behind him, he takes in the surroundings briefly, noting how similar this apartment is to Oswald’s rooms above his club, same sleek elegant style that doesn’t jar with Oswald at the least but brings him into focus even more. As if Jim could ever look away.

Jim sits beside him on the couch, and Oswald looks up at him with a mix of hope and hopelessness, and Jim just can’t deal with it. He covers Oswald’s hand with his own.

“Tell me, Oswald,” he says softly. “What was it?”

“Remember how you asked me about the attempts and I avoided the question, Jim? That was… that was because I didn’t want to lie to you. But the attempt was indeed Montanari’s doing.”

“Both of them?”

He did say ‘attempt’, singular… Just what was it that Oswald was hiding, and why does he look at Jim like he sees him for the last time? This day is just too much, Jim’s nerves stretched almost to their limit.

“No. Just the second one.”

“What about the first one?”

“I staged it,” Oswald says quietly. “I knew he would be planning to take me out. I wanted to sway his thinking to have it under control.”

“You got nearly killed in that second one!” Jim exclaims in frustration. “Just how under control was that?! I happened to be there by pure chance!”

“Victor was always there,” Oswald says, blinking bashfully. “He didn’t act once he saw you take action and succeed, but he wouldn’t have let anything fatal to happen.” He smiles briefly, unsure. “Victor even praised your style, for the hands-on take on it.”

Getting praised by assassins now, what a thrill.

“Okay,” Jim rubs his forehead and tries to ignore Oswald’s hand trembling in his - but he doesn’t let go either. “How does that tie into the fake kidnapping?”

“I wanted to control his moves, Jim, and for that I had to establish a pattern easy enough to follow for such a simpleton. I made sure to be visiting Mother on set days, and made sure to walk from her place to pose as an easier target. I instructed my underlings who visited ‘Calico’ and other hangout spots for grunts drop hints about how my mother is the person most dear to me and I would do anything to keep her safe.”

“Oswald… let me get this straight…” Jim squeezes Oswald’s hand in his and looks him straight in the eye. “You deliberately set _your mother_ as bait? For your rivals to take shots at?”

“Jim… Yes, Jim, I did,” Oswald says, desperate. “But you must understand. It was only a matter of time before somebody attempted this, and I couldn’t leave it up to chance, to expose Mother to real danger where I had no control over it. Now…” his expression grows colder, satisfied. “Now don Montanari will serve as an example for those thinking about it. And, Jim, I _will_ be pressing charges against him, just so you know.”

“You intend for him to go to jail?” and then Jim gets it. Of course. To have a don fumble his takeover so splendidly as to land in jail, to become a laughing stock for all the other criminals, to use his cowardice and inferiority against him, make him embellish his own disgraceful fall to make Oswald, no, ‘the Penguin’, even more formidable of a foe to try to cross, is a magnificent plan, a perfect long con that Oswald excels at.

“I see,” he says. “And what about your mother?”

“Mother’s been safe outside the city even before I staged the first attempt. Victor sent his best lieutenant to guard her, and from her reports, Mother is quite happy at the resort and she has already acquired quite a few admirers utterly besotted with her,” Oswald smiles fondly.

“So, this woman?..”

“An actress in trouble,” he says. “She helps me with this, I help her disappear. I got a ticket to Europe and a new home waiting for her there.”

“You really think of everything, do you?” Jim says, watching Oswald carefully. Now that he thinks of it, Oswald never, never lies to him directly. He might misguide him, might distract him, but he never truly lies, and in a city like this it’s just as close to sincerity as it can get. That just means Jim has to stay on his toes around him, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t excite him in some twisted way.

“I… I understand if that makes you change your mind about me, Jim,” Oswald says, his face falling and his eyes raw with desperate hope he knows is futile. “This is dishonest and unscrupulous behaviour that must be intrinsically repulsive to you. I… I just want you to know that hearing you say you l-love me made me happier than you can imagine, and I am very grateful to you for feeling this way, short-lived as it was--”

“Oswald,” Jim interrupts, smiling. “You’re babbling.”

“Jim…” Oswald stares at him, wanting to hope and fearing it, and it twists Jim inside to feel - this.

“I’m not taking anything back,” Jim says, leaning closer, crowding Oswald against the couch. “I want you all the more for your brilliant, crafty, devious mind.” He is now looming over Oswald lying on his back and watching Jim with incredulity. “I want you all the more for your generous heart.” Jim cups his cheek gently, rubbing it with his thumb. “I’ll tell you I love you as many times as you want to hear it. So, Oswald… do you believe me?”

“Yes,” he breathes out. “Jim, always…”

Oswald reaches up and kisses Jim then, his hands burying into his hair, and Jim moans at this, pressing his body into Oswald’s as their kiss gets deeper, as their tongues dance together slowly, their touch all the more intimate for being their first, and Jim savours it, revelling at the warmth and the taste of Oswald’s mouth, wanting more. Oswald smells like leather and musk again, with just a hint of gunpowder, and the combination does something to Jim’s brain, tapping into what feels like danger and turning him on at the same time. No one would ever compare to this.

When they have to part again, breathing hard, Jim trails slow kisses down Oswald’s jaw and neck, tugging at his necktie to loosen it and unbuttoning the collar as he goes lower. Oswald sighs as Jim’s lips hover over his pulse point, and then he arches towards Jim when Jim nibbles on his neck, sucking the delicate skin into his mouth, wanting to erase the bruises left there with marks of his own.

“You always wear so much,” Jim murmurs as he unbuttons Oswald’s waistcoat to get to the shirt buttons underneath. “Always so many layers…” He softly kisses down Oswald’s chest. “Never letting anyone see the real you under all that…” He presses his lips to where Oswald’s heart is beating like crazy, and he slides his palms under the shirt to brush over his nipples, craving Oswald’s response. Oswald groans out loud, his fingers gripping Jim’s shoulders and sliding off the leather of his jacket.

“God, Jim, you’re one to talk,” he speaks, his voice barely controlled and shaking, as he tries to tug the jacket off Jim.

Jim breaks away and pulls it off, dropping it to the floor, Oswald sitting up as well and removing his suit jacket, discarding his tie, and when he reaches to undo his cufflinks, Jim catches his wrists and kisses them, thin skin over the veins, Oswald’s pulse beating against his lips in a maddenning tattoo. Oswald surges forward then, and now it’s Jim lying on his back as Oswald smirks and pulls at Jim’s shirt, tugging it out of his pants and unbuttoning it in a hurry. Jim sneaks his hands under Oswald’s shirt again, making him shiver as he slides his palms over his sides, his back, his chest, the skin smooth and flushing under his touch, and Oswald squirms on top of him, kissing Jim again, his lips needy and hot, and it’s making Jim’s head spin even before their crotches align, dragging a moan out of them both.

“More,” Oswald almost whimpers, pressing into Jim and burying his hand into Jim’s hair again, tugging him to rise up. Jim’s lips lock onto his neck, kissing hard, leaving more marks, but the taste of Oswald’s skin is enticing, exhilarating, and so Jim can’t break away, licking and biting and kissing him all over, until Oswald moves against him, pressing them together once again.

“More,” he says, his voice a command despite its needy hitching and the fact that he almost falls apart already under Jim’s touch. Jim feels a shiver run down his spine at this, unable to disobey, ever.

Jim reaches between them, unbuttoning Oswald’s fly - of course he has a button fly, Jim shouldn’t have been surprised at all - Oswald’s cock so hot near his hand, and he brushes it with his fingers ever so slightly, teasing, as he looks up at Oswald with a grin and then breath leaves him at once as he sees his expression when Oswald shuts his darkened eyes and moans out loud, the sound that shatters Jim to his core, urging him to _do that again_ , and he does. He cups Oswald through his underwear, fondling him, and Oswald trembles and practically assaults Jim’s mouth then, all tongue and teeth, groaning in frustration, and he reaches for Jim’s belt and then his fly, undoing them swiftly, wanting to touch Jim, and it’s just touch, it’s just sex, it shouldn’t feel like such ecstasy, but somehow it’s all that and more.

They push their pants and underwear down, and their fingers meet over their cocks, their hips jolting in sync, overwhelmed with the feeling of it all, of each other finally reaching this point, Jim opening his mouth for Oswald, catching his moans, Oswald biting at his lips and licking them at once, hungry, greedy, unable to stop, _unwilling_ to stop, and then they both seize up and spill for each other as their shared climax crashes upon them with intensity neither of them could have expected.

Oswald collapses on top of Jim, tension leaving his limbs as he breathes heavily. Jim holds him close, coming down as well, never wanting to move in the nearest century or maybe even longer than that. Exhaustion is taking its toll, and listening to Oswald’s calming breath calms Jim in turn, and he almost slips into a slumber when Oswald’s phone rings.

Oswald groans, rising up off Jim and reaching for his pocket, but the pants slid off and it’s not easy to find, and the shrill ringing chases away the sleepiness for good.

“Yes?” Oswald answers at last, his voice stern. He listens a little, frowning, then hands the phone to Jim. “It’s your partner.”

“Harvey?”

“Jim, don’t you drop off the radar this way after pulling your stunts! Where the hell are you? Are you okay?”

Oswald stands up, pulling his pants back on, and Jim zones out, watching him move, the signs of their pleasure written shamelessly over his stomach, and Jim barely hears Harvey’s questions.

“What? Yes, Harvey, I’m fine. Perfectly. I’ll come tomorrow and write all the necessary reports.”

“Don’t bother. Barnes gave you a day off, what with you getting nabbed by a perp and everything,” Harvey barks a laugh. “He’s still in ICU anyway, the doctors can’t make any promises about his condition.”

“Alright…” Jim says, sitting up and watching Oswald gather their jackets and hang them over the back of the nearby chair. Then Oswald smirks at him, and straddles Jim, running his fingers under Jim’s chin, and Jim loses the ability to speak and to process everything but the look in those eyes. “Anyway, I’ll call you back tomorrow, Harv, alright? Bye,” he blurts out hastily, dropping the phone.

“Come here,” he says huskily, gripping Oswald’s hips and bringing him even closer to kiss his breath away. Oswald hums in content, exploring Jim’s shoulders with his fingers, running them over muscles still taut with the day’s tension, and pushing the shirt off. Jim strips out of it in a hurry, never wanting to stop touching him, circling his waist and sliding his tongue again into Oswald’s ready mouth, and it’s just been a while, but the arousal envelops them again, inexorably.

“Want you,” he speaks against Oswald’s lips, his hands resting on his buttocks, giving them a squeeze. “Want you so much…”

“God, Jim,” Oswald utters, his voice breaking, impatient. “Yes. Yes. I’ve wanted you for so long,” he whispers hotly into Jim’s ear, sending more shivers down his spine. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

Jim groans and rises from the couch, picking Oswald up. Oswald gasps and wraps his legs around Jim’s waist, fitting against him so snugly, clutching at his shoulders and _giggling_ in surprise, and the sound is so airy and light and it’s beautiful.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“Down that hall,” Oswald says, delighted, pressing closer, as Jim walks towards the room, his heart beating hard.

The bedroom is darker, softer than the other rooms, and Jim drops Oswald on the bed, crawling on top of him, the world outside slowly fading out, leaving just their little bubble instead. Here it’s perfectly fine for Jim to strip the criminal kingpin bare and worship his skin with soft gliding touches, here it’s perfectly fine for Oswald to cling to the detective and grip his arms as he pushes his fingers against Oswald’s opening, making him gasp softly. Jim was unsure attempting this, but Oswald is eager, so eager for more, his voice _ordering_ Jim to give more, that every doubt just disappears and Jim only has to listen to Oswald coming apart for him.

“You’re incredible,” Jim murmurs against Oswald’s shoulder, trailing his tongue over the skin. “So hot and tight for me.”

Oswald writhes on the sheets as Jim’s fingers stretch him, sliding in and out, and he finds Jim’s hand again, twining their fingers together, reaching for Jim’s mouth again, kissing him gently and sweetly before gasping “Fuck me, Jim” right into the kiss. The velvety command undoes Jim fully, he groans and pushes Oswald off his fingers to climb over him and guide himself inside. He goes in slowly, so slowly, the head slipping past the resisting muscles and Jim is breathless, his skin burning as Oswald wraps around him so completely, arching towards him and moaning as Jim continues to push inside.

“Jim, oh! Jim, please!” he pleads desperately and Jim can hardly restrain himself from driving deeper to wring more of these sounds out of him. He makes a conscious, titanic effort to stop, and he reaches for Oswald’s cock to give it a gentle stroke instead.

“Please _what_ , Oswald?” he murmurs, teasing the head with slow circles of his thumb. Oswald’s cock feels so good in his hand, hot and thick and leaking precum, and Oswald trembles at the touch, gripping Jim’s hand harder.

Jim has always known that Oswald was special, he was always special to him even when he tried to deny it, but doing this, - it ruins Jim forever. He had male lovers before, when he was young and experimenting, so it couldn’t be the novelty of having sex with a man, and he had deep connections to his lovers before, so it couldn’t be that either, but somehow Jim feels that no one would ever come close to this. No one would ever be both so unrestrained and responsive and so overwhelmingly dominating at the same time, no one would feel so yielding and so resistant at once, soft skin and firm grip, soft voice and eyes that almost dare Jim to try and disobey to show him then whose exactly he is. Jim knows he is done for the moment Oswald looks at him and smiles.

“ _Faster_ ,” he says in that velvety voice again, “Faster and harder.”

Jim complies, grunting, driving into Oswald hard, setting a merciless rhythm, Oswald’s voice shattering into tiny moans that border on cries, and Jim feels he won’t last like this at all, not with Oswald looking like that, and sounding like that, and embracing Jim to kiss him senseless.

“I love you, Jim Gordon,” he murmurs into his mouth between moans, the words burning into Jim like a brand, and he will never be the same again after.

Jim groans, stroking Oswald’s cock harder, squeezing it, running his thumb over the slit, and then Oswald tenses around him, his body taut as a string before he shudders and comes, his orgasm bringing Jim over the edge as well, and Oswald is beautiful as he comes apart completely, and Jim never felt this way for anyone else before. He kisses Oswald softly once more before slipping out, satisfied, content, _loved_.

They doze off, entwined in the dimness of the room, neverending Gotham rain still shuffling softly behind the window.

The rain is in Jim’s dream again as well, and it’s the same darkness as ever, but there is no wind, and no void tries to suck him in. Instead, the rain is soothing and warm, revitalizing, and he’s not alone here, he is never alone in the darkness again. Jim knows this presence, familiar and grounding, both safe and dangerous, an intricate duality that both soothes and excites him, and he only has to reach his hand out to feel reassured again.

Oswald has always been walking beside him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, this is really the end. I can't believe it. This is my first multi-chapter work that I've stuck with till the end, and I'm floored. Maybe it could have been better in some regards, maybe it could've been something else. But I'm really happy I completed it.
> 
> And this would not have been possible without your support! So thank you, thank you greatly for all the likes and kudos and comments, you guys made many of my days ❤
> 
> Thank you for sticking up with this story till the end! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!


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